While flying to Austin for a meeting the other week, I realized that over the years, I have formed a rather biased opinion about Texas without ever having been there. J.R. from Dallas, an episode of Charlie’s Angels where Kelly and Chris go undercover as Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders to take down a conniving southern belle murderess (aptly played by Audrey Landers), the big boss in the white suit from Smokey and the Bandit with his little side-kick, and of course George W. Bush have all been instrumental piecing together a rather negative opinion of “the great state of Texas.” Gas guzzlers, ten-gallon hats and bull horns on Cadillacs all race through my mind when I think of Texas.

My opinion on Texas has of course been tempered over the years. My folks went to Corpus Christi in the 80′s, and they came back in one piece. My friends Susan, Eden, and Steve are all from Texas, and they’re good fun. Ann Richards was a Texan and I admired her. Michelle Shocked, Nanci Griffith, and sexy Matthew McConoughy all come from Texas, so clearly Texas can’t be such a bad place.

Still as a man from north of the Mason-Dixon line with limited exposure to people south of that divide, I find my preconceived prejudices are difficult at best to overcome, and stereotypical images of Texas, Inc. fly in the face of many of my own values. “Everything’s Big in Texas!” embodies the overall excesses that Americans have become famous for: big land, big cars, and an unapologetic attitude against economy. While this behavior happens all over the US, when it is coupled with “Good Ol Boys” and “Don’t Mess with Texas
” bumper stickers, it’s hard to separate the wheat from the chaff.

It was on my flight from Chicago to Austin that once again, I was forced to reconsider my anti-Texas sentiment. Seated next to me was an incredibly talented photographer, Nathan Addison , a photojournalist who also shoots weddings. Nathan is from Texas and lives in Austin. Like all my friends from Texas have already pointed out, Austin is different than the rest of Texas. It’s got the Capitol, a university, great music, great bars and culture. A bastion of liberalism in the red sea of Texas.

Nathan was returning from shooting a wedding in Virginia. His compact flash cards had been acting up, so we commiserated about the stress that corrupt cards create and discussed some trouble-shooting tips for PhotoRescue, an amazing application that has saved a number of my own shoots. Nathan also carried a floppy teddy bear. While at first it seemed odd for a grown man to be holding stuffed toy, when I asked what the bear’s name was, he said he didn’t know, as it was his four-year-old son’s bear. No further explanation was required, as his smile said it all. Traveling with the bear was a sweet reminder of his wife and son waiting for him to return home. We discussed photography, our families and politics. We even discovered our shared passion for long distance running. What? Could this be yet another Texan that appeared perfectly normal? Indeed, I forced to accept that my imagination is far more biased than when faced with reality. Nathan and I exchanged emails and he sent me on my way with a few top tips for my Austin visit.

When I got to my hotel, the Renaissance Hotel Austin, it definitely lived up to my expectations of Texas: it was a huge hotel with a large entrance and an even bigger center atrium. My room was spacious and clean and the bed looked like it could sleep ten. What a change from compact London, particularly since Lee and I have been in the middle of the dusty job of restoring our Victorian home. Ahhhhh….it was nice to be in America. I’m such a hypocrite!

On my last evening in town, I decided to venture out and see the city. Austin, in an odd sort of way, reminded of St. Paul. A smattering of old buildings interspersed with skyscrapers. What struck me most was the number of parking lots in the middle of the city. My cab driver had suggested a few sites to see, but it was clear that the Austin bats were a great place to start.

The Congress Bridge Bats

The cabbie dropped me off at Congress Bridge, and I made my way down to Lady Bird Lake where a small crowd was beginning to form–all waiting for the bats. There was a family sitting on the grassy hillside, and I asked them if they knew when the bats would be out. Like me, they were on their first visit to Austin and had no idea when the bats would emerge. I ventured along the path under the bridge where I chatted with a woman from New York. She too wasn’t sure what time the bats would come out. She had an old Nikon camera and was shooting film, a proud luddite through and through.

A woman on her evening walk passed by and mentioned that the bats didn’t start stirring until quite late, probably 9:45 at the earliest. It was only 7:00, so I opted to take a walk around town. Back up to the street, I headed north on Congress Avenue to see the Capitol Building. It was a lovely walk. The heat of the day had soaked into the buildings and pavement, and as the sun went down, they continued to emanate warmth. It wasn’t too humid, so I figured I was lucky.

My first observation was how empty the street was. Though there were a few people on foot, by and large, most of the people whizzed by in their cars, and even then, it seemed pretty quiet. A nice change from the madness of London. Venturing up the east side of the street, I passed a number of little shops, freshly closed for the evening. I hit a bit of a crowd when I came to the theatre. It was the premier of new movie and the star himself there wearing a smart hat and looking very Hollywood in this Texas town.

Coming to the itself, I looked for the steps where Charles Durning sang that fantastic song, Dance a Little Sidestep in the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Sadly, the steps too were just Hollywood, leaving me to hum the little number in front of a ground level entrance.

Wandering the grounds in the twilight, I was struck by the prominent Civil War memorial , commemorating the soldiers who fought and died during the war between the States. What stood out the most was the language used to describe the war. Nowhere did the word “slavery” appear and I don’t recall the terms Confederate or Union either; the only commented on States Rights.

Upon reading this, it was the first time that I really considered the Civil War as a battle over States Rights. I suppose my history teachers had impressed upon me that this was a driving force behind the conflict, but for me, and probably a sizable population, the conflict was much more basic–not the rights of States, but the rights of individuals who are part of a State. In preserving the Union, the Federal Government established what I believe is one of the most important aspects of the US society—creating a civil liberties baseline for its citizens of what will and will not be tolerated across the land.

On a general level, yes, individual States should have authority to determine laws governing their domains; however, the beauty of the Federal government is its ability to regulate issues that transcend regional boundaries, creating the overarching fabric that defines America. Whether we agree or disagree with every aspect of patchwork, by and large it forms a collective security blanket.

While back in the States, two topics, both concerning States Rights dominated the media. In Arizona, the legislation ordering immigrants to carry their alien registration documents at all times, and authorizing police to question people if there’s reason to suspect they’re in the United States illegally was looming; while in California, the debate over gay marriage heated up as the referendum faced a tough appeal, this time to a federal court. While the Arizona situation certainly raises a number of questions about the overall pallor of America (e.g. ethnicity), it should come as no surprise that the court’s action in California comes a bit closer to home for me.

It has been four years since Lee and I moved back to Britain. We met at the end of 2002 and have been together ever since. Lee moved to Seattle with me in the fall of 2003 on a student visa, but when his course was completed and he finished a year of practical experience, he was forced to return to the UK because US immigration doesn’t recognize same-sex couples for visa reasons.

At that time, we hired an immigration attorney in Seattle to explore our options for Lee and I to remain in the US together. After an hour of consultation, we left knowing our prospects for remaining in the US were depressing: we couldn’t get a partner or fiancé visa, the H1 Visas had already been divvied up for the upcoming year, and the only options we had were to either get him an E visa or marry him off to a woman.

The E Visa is an investor visa, but for us even that was out of reach. The visa allows a UK citizens with “a substantial amount of money” into America under the premise that they invest that money and hold 51% or more equity in it. We had to show the cash up front, provide a business plan and then the US government would consider granting such a visa.We asked how much a “substantial amount of money” was, and our attorney indicated that this was a gray area, with $300,000 being the bare minimum. While this figure may not cause much trouble for some, neither Lee nor I had a spare $300k just lying around. We thought about selling Lee’s flat in London and using the cash as seed money, but as there was no guarantee that US immigration would grant a visa at all, the risk was too high. By then the flat would be sold, he’d be off the UK property ladder, and we would be forced to move back to Britain without a place to go.

Next we considered finding Lee a wife to secure a spouse visa. We eyed a couple of good candidates and even had a cursory offer; however, after full deliberation of the potential consequences of “Marriage Fraud,” we decided remaining in the States wasn’t in the cards and resigned ourselves to having a great last year in the US and then return to Lee’s home country. In contrast to the US policy, the UK has two visas for same-sex couples, an unmarried partner visa or a civil partner visa—both of which provide the same immigration rights to same-sex partners as heterosexual couples.

In the year after we completed our education, our Seattle-based businesses took off, but we knew our time there would ultimately come to an end and we would have to pack our bags and return to the UK–not that London is a horrible place at the end of the world, but when you find your stride and then are forced to give it up, the prospect of starting can be a bit disheartening. Together we adopted the British “stiff upper lip,” and in the summer of 2006, we packed what we could, sold what we couldn’t carry, and then retreated to London.

As the sun dipped behind the horizon, and the words on the Civil War monument faded into dark, I glanced at my watch. 9:30—only fifteen minutes until the bats would. Down Congress Avenue and back to Lady Bird Lake. When I got to the bridge, a group of Segway tourists had just pulled in and were waiting. The crowd, which had been relatively empty an hour earlier, was lined with observers waiting for the bats to emerge. I passed the revelers at TGI Fridays and found a place nestled next to a group of school teachers from across the country who were in Austin attending a leadership conference at the University. We shared some idle chit-chat about where we were all from and our impressions of Austin, all the while, our eyes were transfixed on the bridge.

Back in 2004, when Lee and I were still in Seattle, like so many others in the US, we were taken by Barack Obama’s speech at the Democratic National Conference. Powerful, moving, insightful and invigorating were the adjectives used to describe this great man. Why isn’t HE the nominee we mused, particularly when comparing him to the milquetoast candidate they chose. Still, as the years progressed and Obama won the nomination and then the presidency, I was haunted by my own prejudice—that of being a liberal who doesn’t trust other liberals.

In January 2008, I was back in the US for a few days. While there I watched the debate between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama and noted their distinct silence on gay rights. At the time, as an American living in the UK, I was constantly questioned by my British friends whom I supported for President—Hillary or Obama? Though the battle would ultimately be between a Democrat and a Republican, to socially progressive Brits, Hillary and Obama were the only two options. At the time I openly discussed my disappointment with both Hillary and Obama on their silence, and even pondered voting Republican. McCain was emerging as the candidate and I took comfort in his opposition to the federal ban on same-sex marriage. Giuliani also seemed like a viable option, particularly based upon his noted friendship with out gays. My thinking was quite simple–liberals do a fantastic job showing empathy for a cause, but when their feet are held to the fire, they always seem to be the first to scream and run the other way.

A perfect example of fair weather liberals is Senator Patty Murray. A long standing Washington Senator from Seattle, Murray was elected a socially progressive “mom in tennis shoes.” She touted equality and great things on the campaign trail, but when push came to shove, she donned those sneakers and left us high and dry by voting for the Defense of Marriage Act back in 1996. Since then she continues to hem and haw about equality, but quite frankly when when my Washington State ballot came in last week, I filled it in all but in her race. I couldn’t vote for her with a clear conscience. When Lee and I were in the process of trying to sort out his visa, I put a call into her Seattle and Washington offices and both times was promised a call back, but none came. I filled in the online form and SIX MONTHS LATER, I got an autoreply about Mexican Immigration issues. Again I called to set the record straight with her DC office, and again I spoke with someone who promised a call from the Senator herself. Funny, I’ve been waiting now for four years. I wonder if she has misplaced my number.

OK…so I’ve had my rant. Patty Murray–boo.

This all brings us back to Obama. When push came to shove in the election, I did side with Obama. I listened to his platitudes of , “I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman” knowing full well that it was a delicate line to keep his constituency while hoping not to piss off the rest of the electorate. When he as elected I did have great expectations for what his Presidency might hold, particularly for Lee and me. When he won the majority in the House and the Senate, for a brief moment, I could actually envision them actually doing something progressive to help gays and lesbians across the country.

I saw a couple of bats fly out. Zoom. Zoom. Then nothing. The night got a bit darker. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. A few more. The crowd tittered when three or more bats exited the bridge. “It is going to be soooooo fantastic!” squealed one of the teachers. I saw it about fifteen years ago and it was just like a giant cloud. We waited.

After the election of Obama, we waited. The recession, the war in Afghanistan, Iran’s nuclear capabilities, more of the recession filled the news and clearly the President had a lot on his plate. The gays could wait. They have waited a long time, they helped usher him into the White House and they would be there again in 2012.

Zoom. Zoom. Two more bats flew overhead. “That one nearly hit me,” said the teacher from Alabama. Zoom. Zoom. And then there was a break. No more bats. A few people started to pick up their blankets and bottles. Zoom. One by one, the crowd began to dwindle. “Let’s get a margarita,” one of the teachers suggested. “That is a great idea,” said Marcy from Michigan. Zoom.

Over the course of the last two years, I have kept faith. Though I shed tears of joy at the election of Obama, it became clear that it wasn’t because of him personally, but rather what change he MIGHT be able to affect through his judicial appointments. Zoom.

Cheryl from California and Abbey from Alabama and I were the last three on the shore. As the last remnants of sunlight disappeared, they said their goodbyes, leaving me alone on the bank of Lady Bird Lake looking for bats. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. Zoom. It was a small spectacle of bats, just for me. Nothing on the scale a giant plume, but enough to make me smile.

At last I got tired of waiting for that mythical cloud of bats. I what I came for, I got to see a bunch of bats—still, I was left a bit disappointed. I made my way back up the bridge and to a bar called Oil Can Harry’s, a gay bar not far from the bridge. While ordering a beer, my bartender cheerfully asked how my night had been. “It was OK. I was at the bridge looking for the bats.” “Oh,” as his smile faded. “I did that once. It just stank of piss and it was too dark. Still, I saw some bats. $4 please.” I handed him a twenty and waited for my change.

I appreciated his candor and willingness to tell it as it was. While kicking back my pint on my last night in Texas, I sifted through the events of the last couple of days. Lovely people, complicated history, media stereotypes and the reality of it all. No one was bad. No one was really larger than life. The people I met were just regular folks getting on with their day, but magically we all came together to try and witness something special. The gay and lesbian community is now very much like the crowd on Congress Bridge, we’re all just trying to get on with our day but also hoping to share something special. Lee and I certainly are. At the same time, we’ve come to accept that although the platitudes may trickle out, we still haven’t seen that plume of bats billowing into the night. While I would surely welcome it, I’m sure there are plenty of bat-o-phobics out there who would fear such an onslaught would only be a premonition for the end of marriage as they know it. Straight people still get married in Massachusetts, don’t they? Has Boston experienced the Rapture yet?

So now here I sit, back in London waiting for the bats. I have heard their little noises. I have seen signs of movement. I’ve even experienced what the plume of equality can mean, thanks to the British government. That all said, I still hold hope that someday in my lifetime I will see the plume of bats emerge in their full and beautiful glory.

It gives me great pleasure to know that finally, FINALLY! the issue of gay marriage has been addressed in a Federal court. It is a first step. Zoom. Will it result in a plume? I cannot say.

Our doorbell broke shortly after moving in. We bought an electronic one that has a cheap ringing tone. One day it just went haywire, ringing randomly and changing the ringtone each time it went off. We finally got so irritated by it we unplugged it in hopes to find a proper solution to resolve it. We figure it’s some sort of frequency battle with another appliance in the neighbourhood, but until we invest in a wired bell, it remains turned off, leaving people to knock if they really want our attention.

I made my way to the door where I was met by a handsome man, impeccably dressed and holding a fuzzy microphone. Before he even opened his mouth, I knew why he was at my doorstep. He wasn’t looking for me, he was looking for Mr. Patel, the previous owner. “I’m looking for Mr. Patel,” he said.

“Yes,” he and his wife moved some time ago.”

“Do you have any forwarding information?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

I looked over our front fence and saw a cameraman and the news van. The reporter thanked me and went on his way.

Just about a year ago, three youths were terrorizing our street, culminating in the death of an elderly pensioner on his way out of the mosque next to our house. The man and his granddaughter had just left the mosque and were standing on the side of the road when three kids–two fifteen year olds and a fourteen year old at the time–whizzed by on their bicycles, whacked the elderly man, knocking him to the ground where he hit his head on the sidewalk, suffered irreparable brain damage and died a week later. According to reports, the youths recorded the attacks on their mobile phones to share and brag about their exploits. Big men, huh?

The reason the reporter was visiting our house was that shortly before they killed Ekram Haque outside the mosque, they had attacked Mr. and Mrs. Patel in their home, now our home. The kids were sitting on the Patel’s wall. Mr. Patel asked them to leave. They followed him into the house and beat and stomped on the 70-year old couple. The kids were caught and were out on bail when they struck again, this time killing a man.

That morning, the judge sentenced the youths–one for four-and-a half years and one for three-and-a-half. The youngest wasn’t sentenced because he was too young.

A bit later in the day, a reporter from the Daily Mail knocked at our door. He too looked at me inquisitively at first. “I’m looking for…” “Mr. Patel,” I finished his sentence. “Yes.” “He and his wife moved several months ago. You may wish to check with the estate agent in Tooting if you’re interested in finding them,” I replied. I asked if the boys had been sentenced. He confirmed they had been. When he read me their sentences from his notes, I felt a surge of sheer anger.

Since moving to the UK four years ago, I have learned countless new words and phrases that I never encountered in the US: anti-social behaviour order (ASBO), local councils, binge drinking (not that I haven’t been there myself–just didn’t have a name for it), and health & safety . These phrases are used daily on every news station in Britain. Whether radio, television or Internet, these are the words that in my opinion genuinely reflect modern Britain.

I closed the door on the Mail reporter and once again the feelings of rage ran through my system. How did Britain get to this point? I’m sure the UK is not alone, but I don’t recall this many feral youths in the States. OK–let me temper my condemnation. Yes, I lived in Seattle and in Minnesota, not necessarily the bastions of gang violence and yes, I tend to keep to relatively safe places. (My dad would probably disagree with that statement.) Still, it is really difficult to comprehend such violence, and what appears to be society’s fear of confrontation, especially when it lands in my own front hallway.
Lee and I have never felt afraid in our home, but should we? Sure the kids have been caught and are locked up for now, but they’ll be back. Will their memories of our place haunt them, or simply taunt them?
The new coalition government is in place. Will it make a difference? While I’m not a big “law and order” type guy, I do hope that the new British government will bring a blend of justice and common sense to society in need of a new order.

]]> http://markweeks.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=543 1 http://markweeks.com/blog/?p=516 http://markweeks.com/blog/?p=516#comments Tue, 06 Jul 2010 13:20:20 +0000 admin http://markweeks.com/blog/?p=516 This writing is one that I wrote a number of years ago, long before the concept of a blog crossed my mind. Hopefully it has managed the test of time.

_________________

When Michael moved out in 1999, he took with him two lamps that elegantly filled dark spaces. We met years earlier while singing with the local men’s chorus, and our friendship had been built largely around the notes and bars of that institution. We reveled in each other’s companionship and soon found ourselves laughing and chatting on a daily basis.  Both of us were transitioning from being post-college Midwestern boys into single career men of the city. We had an A-B relationship, Almost Boyfriends—all the comforts of a being boyfriends without the sex or the need for fidelity.  When Michael’s apartment lease expired, it was only natural that he moved in with me to build a home together. Though we were traveling a similar path, our roads where markedly different; I was seeking a life of international jet-setting, and Michael was providing basic social services to prostitutes and I.V. drug users in suburban Seattle. Our careers and goals could not be more dissimilar, yet when put together they created a rare and beautiful light.

Michael’s moving in transformed my large apartment into a cozy pad. Our furniture fit well together. A sleek pink couch beside an overstuffed chair, a mahogany bookcase and a garage sale pineapple lamp, a touch of Paris, a splash of Cleveland, a hint of Mexico, and a knowing glance from Minnesota all tossed together creating our home. Michael and I became firmly entrenched in adulthood. We abandoned the futons and particle board furniture of our puppy litter days, scaled back our parties, gardened and cooked, added a cat and realized the importance of good lighting. We dispersed lamps, candles, strands of Christmas lights and wall sconces throughout the apartment to warmly illuminate our home and our friendship. “At last, you have made a real home,” our friend Fred proclaimed. (This from the same man who had condemned one of my parties as “cheap and Spartan.”)

The lighting worked well at first, but when we decided to paint the dining room, controversy ensued. I consulted an interior decorator friend of mine from New York, and he suggested the color pink. I’d seen pink dining rooms done before and agreed it was just the touch our apartment needed to create an ambience suitable for intimate dinner parties. I could picture the gentle pink of the walls reflecting candlelight onto our guests, bathing them in warm elegance and encouraging them to linger late into the night drinking fine wine, eating exotic cheeses and engrossed in meaningful conversation.

Our implementation failed. We created a cotton candy nightmare, with a hint of wet bubble gum sheen. After a couple of days, we resolved to fix it. We toned down the pink by applying a wash to it and then painted salmon-colored vertical stripes for visual texture. The result was dramatic and did light well by night; a single candle transformed the room to a shimmering candy fantasy. By day, however, it looked like a piece of cinnamon taffy on steroids. The moment the last coat dried, my temperature shot up, my throat closed and four days later I remained in bed fighting the cold of the season. Each morning I woke and squinted past the Pepto Bismo palace, seeking refuge in the quieter rooms. I coped with the color for a month and a half, hoping it would grow on me, but ultimately resolved that it had to go. Michael, on the other hand, remained a steadfast supporter of the vibrant space,

“It’s fun,” he insisted.

“Sure it’s fun, Michael. It’s as fun as an ice cream parlor. But we have to live here.”

“It was your decision to paint it pink in the first place,” he countered.

“Yes, it was. I’m also happy to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. The pink is bad. Really bad. It gives me headaches.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, Michael, it is that bad. I can’t even eat in there. The only thing I can think of when I’m in there is when we can get rid of it.”

“It took us a week and a half to finish,” his voice glowered. “I’m not painting the room again.”

I sensed a slight concession on his part and seized the opportunity to bypass further interior design landmines by offering to paint the room myself; all he would have to do is help choose the color. After we agreed on “Sandy Saddle,” I spent the next day transforming the space. Within hours I muted the loud walls to a subtle shade of suede. Michael returned to the apartment and nodded reluctantly.

“It’s too dark,” he grumbled.

“We can light it. How about with the floor lamp from the living room.”

This was Michael’s floor lamp. While he was not keen on disturbing the lighting in the living room, he agreed to move his lamp. Both rooms would be tolerable until I could resolve the situation by adding a new lamp to the pad. “I want to put this back soon, but it will do for now.”

We had reached temporary accommodation. Before I could buy a lamp and finish the project, I became distracted by a different beam. I started dating Deg  a guy who had great lighting—modern lights that cut the darkness, black was black and light was light. Soon I was the focal point of Deg’s halogen spotlights. They were hot and bright and completely captured my attention. I helped Deg pick out a couple of lamps that gently warmed his otherwise crisp apartment, and the two of us created a space that was very well lit.

Back at home though, I slacked off and Michael’s lamp remained in its temporary place. As weeks passed, Michael’s frustration grew. Our home had been disturbed, and I hadn’t fulfilled my promise of completing the space and returning his light to the proper place. We argued, we yelled. We resolved. The next day I found a pair of sleek chrome lamps, but they were missing shades. Shades, mind you, are what complete a room. Certain the lamps were right, I bought them in full faith I’d find suitable shades. Just steps outside the shop in a heap of garbage on the sidewalk were two rusted hanging lanterns—one red, one green that provided the exact contrast I had been seeking to compliment the bases—polished chrome with rusted texture. I picked them up, brought them home, set them in place, and returned Michael’s lamp to the living room. He finally beamed, “I love the room. It really works.” Once again our home became a friendly haven.

Though Michael and my home offered warm peace, I remained enamored with the heat of Deg’s spotlight until the day I stepped out of it to find Deg no longer turned on the lamps he and I had bought together. The room beyond his halogen was cold and lonely. I picked up a sweater, my toothbrush and a few personal pieces, and returned home to gently warm my frostbite.

Shortly thereafter, I developed a fear for hot lights. Too hot. Unsettling. Unnerving. I even ended my time with the chorus to get out of the spotlight. The heat of the stage lights kept Michael’s attention and he continued singing happily. I directed my energy to my career, and soon was a sprouting businessman hopping the globe working to grow a small software company. Airplane lights, hotel lights, desk lamps, glowing computer screens and the lights of cities far away replaced the cozy lighting of home. Michael’s job kept him close to home, and with me away so frequently, he’d tweak the lighting to suit his needs. I would return from a business trip, to my dusty bed lamp and altered illumination throughout the apartment. There was no longer mutual agreement over lighting, as the place was clearly lit in Michael’s favor. He’d tell me about his recent dinner party with Richard, Neal, and David and I’d only notice some wax on the wall. He’d mention the movie night he’d had with Scott and Kevin, and I’d become agitated by the blue light bulbs he’d installed in his bedroom. Blinded by the corporate ladder, I had no time for dinner parties and casual entertaining. I developed a festering jealousy towards mood lighting and the people who had the time for them. Michael and I soon found ourselves arguing over voltage. I needed searing-wake-up bathroom lights; Michael needed gentle-wake-up bathroom light. Dim lights were just that, dim. Candles were too messy, light bulbs couldn’t be bright enough; morning lights had to be bright, go, go, go. At evening, lights just had to be off. Darkness. Michael, on the other hand, simply wanted to enjoy the nest we’d created and adjust it accordingly.

When I took a break from work, I spent time seeking external light sources, frequently through dating. Though I met a number of guys, none had the lighting I was seeking. Evan’s rooms always glowed, but they remained cool and crisp lacking the warmth of candles. Robert opted for firelight and firelight alone. Popping wood, scented candles and smoldering cigarettes illuminated his home. The smoke got in my eyes. Ming opted for basic light, functionally sound but stylistically unattractive. Jonathan was a designer by trade, and his home glowed perfectly. I couldn’t imagine it lit any other way. But perfection holds little interest for me. A quirk, no matter how small, adds depth and resonates with my style and ultimately we couldn’t find middle ground so we pulled the plug on our relationship both leaving slightly frustrated, but not angry.

Michael dated too, though the men he met never seemed interested in lighting. Each was a bit austere and unacquainted with the hues of good lighting. Stephen was the only guy Michael dated that recognized good lighting when he saw it. He was afraid, however, to properly exercise his skill. His apartment was a perfect canvas for illumination, yet through scholarly neglect, a single desk lamp was the only focal point. Some nights, after our respective dates, Michael and I would find ourselves alone together in the apartment. We’d light a candle, turn on a lamp or two, put a soft CD on, and pour a glass of wine. We’d climb out his bedroom window to the fire escape to smoke cigarettes and watch the traffic below. We’d remember that our friendship was more than just cohabitation. After a tender hug and a giggle, we’d wish each other a “Sleep well” and close our bedroom doors.

When the Fourth of July came, Michael and I watched the fireworks together. Bright plumes cascaded over Elliot Bay. The Space Needle stood firmly planted while pinks, greens, reds, blues and yellows filled the sky above it. The sparks trailed into the water reaching a quiet end. Michael told me that night he’d found a house that he wanted to buy. He’d been looking for a few weeks, but now the reality of him moving was no longer a dream, it was an unstoppable reality. Each Fourth of July a local AM radio station plays patriotic music to accompany the fireworks. One of our neighbors brought a transistor radio to the rooftop and tried in vain to find the right station. After several crackles and a few bars of America the Beautiful, the batteries died. “They’ll be finished shortly, anyhow,” our downstairs neighbor Carol said. We watched the rest of the display in near silence; an occasional “Ooo” or “Ahh” broke in. After the grand finale, an over-zealous display of red, white and blue stars and stripes, petered out into the water, the crowd dispersed leaving Michael and me alone on the roof.

“I’ll miss you, Michael.”

“I’ll miss you too, but I am ready to make a home of my own. Christ, I’d always thought I’d do this with a partner, but I’m thirty-one now, if I wait for ‘him’ to come along, I’ll never do it.”

“I know what you mean,” was all I could muster up. I gave his hand a squeeze and we went inside. Two weeks later while I was off on a business trip Michael called to tell me he’d closed on his house. His move-in date was set for August 15, so he assured me he’d cover his part of the rent for the first two weeks of the month. Within weeks what had been our home once again became a large apartment, but this time, I was alone.

The first night a couple of friends stopped by to have a look and assure me it was a great canvass to fill. I spent the next few weeks steaming the rugs, scrubbing the wood floors on my hands and knees, and moving furniture around to fill the place, I was still left with stark walls and dark spaces throughout the place. I threw myself into my career even further. More work. More travel. More quiet returns to an echoing pad. I separated my chrome lamps to try and make sense of the space. I shifted the furniture around again to create the right environment, but no matter what I did, something remained off. When I visited Michael’s home, the first thing I noticed was how the rooms of his house glowed invitingly with vibrant colors inspired by his Mexican adventures. Crisp, warm lights filled the rooms. All corners were touched and loved.

My career took flight. Dashing between meetings in New York and Los Angeles. , London and Amsterdam, Hong Kong and Tokyo, I met with potential investors, introduced software to future customers and spoke at length with journalists about how our software was the next “killer app.” When I was back in Seattle, I spent hours at the office managing a team and deciding our next product features. But I rarely stepped foot in my apartment. I ate out virtually every night. I had my shirts dry cleaned. I even hired a cleaning lady to simply wipe the dust and water the plants, A night of nesting at home never crossed my mind.

On a cool cloudy morning back in Seattle, I took a day off from work to do errands. I stepped into a shop off Pine Street. A simple antique floor lamp with a thin striped shade greeted me at the door. I tested the lamp, but the bulb did not work. I asked the shopkeeper for another bulb. We tried that, but it didn’t work either. “Hmm,” she commented from behind her modern, cat eye glasses, “My lamp guy said it was fixed, I can send it back and have him work on it again.”

“No problem, I can wait.”

“Next week okay? Try Thursday or Friday.”

“Sounds good.” I left her my number in case she got it back sooner. I took her card and carefully wrote “Call Thursday” on the back, and ducked out with a quick wave.

Over the course of the next two months I phoned and dropped by weekly and each time was assured it should be back any day. The lamp arrived when it was ready. To welcome it, I repainted the whole apartment. It fit in immediately, gently warming my chilled bedroom. I reunited the chrome lamps and realized that there was only one more space to light.

Artist: Jim Coughenour

When asked what my favorite hobbies are, invariably I reply  running, playing bridge, reading, or grabbing a pint of beer.  It dawned on me the other day, that browsing through card shops is really one of my favorite hobbies, although I expect few people consider it a hobby.

The first card store I remember was Lee’s Pharmacy in Zumbrota, it sold Hallmark cards. Grandma Swee brought me there when I was pretty young. I didn’t see the big deal. Pastel colored paper with loads of script and words and all of the cards had a sickly floral smell. I was not impressed. It had to have been when I was  thirteen or fourteen when on a family outing to the Apache Mall in Rochester, I discovered Cardvaarks, a shop full of irreverent cards of all shapes and sizes. Thus began my addiction.

Amongst the brightly-colored “Lordy, You’re 40!” balloons and the lava lamps in the windows, were racks and racks of cards that would make my mother blush. It was fantastic. There were the silly, the rude and of course the nude. I saw my first naked-man birthday card and was quite tempted to slip it into my bag. I was sure that someone I knew would appreciate it. I spent countless hours at Cardvaarks, memorizing the pictures and the text, taking the time to figure out just who a card would be appropriate for.

I bought stacks of cards. Birthday, Christmas, occasional, thank you, and even romantic ones. Each had to have a striking image or at least a catchy quip. While Hallmark cards generally hovered around 75¢, Cardvaarks got away with charging $1.50 or more, but when I had my heart set on the perfect card, no expense could be spared.

Over the years I’ve sent countless cards. Postcards from Spain, birthday cards to my Aunt back in Zumbrota, and of course mother’s day and father’s day cards from wherever my hat has been. Christmas always gets me. It’s a great time to play catch up with old friends, though I’m not a big fan of the generic Christmas letter. My aunt Mary Jane used to send a mimeographed letter to everyone back in the 70′s sharing what each family member had been up to, with each person carefully described in  third person, including the author herself. It defied reason when I read what  “Mary Jane” had been up to.

As the antithesis to the catch-all letter, for a number of years in the nineties, I made my own cards. Yes, it was a budget production, but I had a lot of fun. My favorite  one was made from a stamp of  Joan Crawford screaming in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I cut out a little red hat from construction paper, pasted that and a little bit of cotton ball to make a little Santa hat on top. I remember constructing the cards on a flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. It was back in the day when you could carry a scissors and glue on a plane without being flagged as a prime terrorist suspect. I was seated in a middle seat next to a mother and her four-year-old son. He was restless and loud, but when I pulled out the cards and started making stuff, he was mesmerized and wanted to make cards too. I quickly set the tyke and his nimble fingers to work, pasting hats on Screaming Joan and I’d then put the finishing touch of cotton on afterwards. It was a lot of fun, and he remained a content and quiet travel companion for the duration of the flight.

Much like cards, flying too has been a fascination of mine. When I finished university, I had a brief stint as  a flight attendant for the newly defunct Northwest Airlines. It was when I was working for Northwest that I came across the First the Wrong Vodka card. It was out of control funny. I read it over and over and mused about it for weeks. I bought it without a recipient in mind and probably even intended to keep it myself. Then one day, someone must have seemed important enough to send it to and poof! it was gone. Gone but not forgotten.

Do you ever have those moments when you regret giving something up? Perhaps it was a mixed tape that you really loved but gave it away during a fleeting romance, but forgot to write down the playlist. Maybe it was a sweatshirt that you lent to a friend of a friend at a summer’s eve picnic and which you know you’ll never see  again. For me, parting with that card, had to be one of those regrets. In fact, it had such an impact on my sense of humor at the time, I still recall precisely when and where I bought it. It was autumn 1992. I was back in Minnesota on a layover from Seattle and nipped into a card shop in Uptown (Minneapolis) to get a sympathy card for a friend’s grandmother. She was  on life support, but I knew her days were numbered and it was the only chance I’d have to get the card, with my travel and all. After spending an inordinate amount of time poring over the entire shop, I got the sympathy card, but then saw Jennifer.The tipping cocktail glass, the flying olive, the thoroughly messed up passengers, and then Jennifer. Bitter, unshaken and seething, she faces death with the same disdain as  she probably would give a  man who sneezes  too loudly or a girl whose skirt is a bit too short.

For months, I sat on the card. I brought it back to Seattle and sat on it, waiting for the right recipient. To be honest, I really don’t recall who got it in the end. Probably someone who thought it was funny, albeit highly inappropriate. They probably sniggered for a moment and then after a few days, chucked it into the garbage can. At the same time, they probably did get some gratification from it, but most likely, once it was gone, they forgot about it.

One of the greatest things about the Internet is finding stuff. Really, you can use it to find useful and absolutely frivolous things. People search for movies, restaurants, cars, computers, husbands, wives, porn and friends on the Internet. I use the Internet to find cards.

A few years ago, I did a search for “first the wrong vodka, now this” and nothing happened. Then a year later I did the same search and still nothing came up. On Monday this week, just before bed, I typed in those six memorable words. I was amazed. A blogger in Portland, Oregon quoted the card as part of his blog, and to my delight, the artist himself had commented on the blogger’s post. I followed the link to the site of my new hero, Jim Coughenour.

Visiting Jim’s site, I found countless images that made me smile, but Jennifer was nowhere to be seen. Fortunately, however, there was an email button. I sent him an email and miraculously the next day received a reply, with a full resolution TIFF image. Without question, the highlight of my week.

While sorting through a few odds and ends this week, I also came across another of my favorite cards, this time one I didn’t part with. The third and final card that remains clearly embedded in my mind is one with the phrase SNAWW, an acronym for “She’s Not a Well Woman.” If anyone comes across that card, let me know!

Over the years, having a productive morning has become an integral part of my life. During my early-twenties, I taught a morning aerobics class three days a week. It was surprisingly fun. There was a core group of students who regularly came to my classes, leaping and jumping until sunup.  I still love morning work outs, but mostly just go running now. The fresh air is great in the mornings and it also preempts chance of finding any  excuses not to work out.

Since moving to London, part of my morning routine is taking care of the household chores. I’m generally up between 6 and 6:30 and have about an hour of time by myself. I spend the time in our kitchen preparing breakfasts and lunches, feeding Oberon (our cat), tidying up and the general household tasks. The Today Programme on Radio4 provides a running commentary on the news and events of the day (for Americans, it’s similar to Morning Edition on NPR).

One of the things I really enjoy about the Today Programme is that the presenters don’t shy away from controversy and frequently have guests with opposing views on a subject to debate. If two sides are not readily available, the presenters themselves play devil’s advocate. Politicians, activists, business leaders and random newsworthy folks are all subject to varying degrees of scrutiny.

It is this persistence of the British media to get real answers that sets the Today Programme apart from the US’s Morning Edition. In the UK, when a politician or business leader side-steps a reporter’s question, the reporter points out that the question was side-stepped, and the presenter asks the question again until it’s answered, or admonishes their guest for not being straight with the public. The interview style practiced in Britain is markedly different than the more touchy-feely American style. Remember Katie Couric interviewing Sarah Palin about her choice of reading material. When Palin became elusive and didn’t answer, Couric gently re-posed the question, but when Palin waffled again, Couric let it slide, leaving the Palin interview on  ambiguous ground. For Palin supporters, she answered evasively because she was being unfairly questioned; for  Palin critics, she just looked like an illiterate idiot.  Truly, no offense to Katie Couric or her interviewing style–it’s part of the American system. British presenters, on the other hand, generally call a spade a spade, and are more than willing to press guests to admit the same. Presenters in Britain  don’t shy away from offending their guests and don’t appear to kowtow for fear of losing future interview opportunities or corporate sponsorships. The world could be a very different place if the US media actually took off their kid gloves and asked genuine questions,rather than purporting to “keep them honest,” and I would be delighted to hear Mrs. Palin be interviewed by  John Humphrys.

Though Radio4 is generally very good about countering each argument presented, the other day, I was sorely let down. Whilst doing my ritual morning chores; making ab pot of coffee, boiling an egg,  folding a pair of socks, one of the guests began touting the need for legislation that would require images which have been digitally retouched to be labeled accordingly. The guest’s argument was that today’s media is filled with images of impossibly beautiful people, and that the psychological effects of these images on society, particularly on women and girls, warranted the proposed labeling.

The guest was unchallenged, and as far as I can remember, the presenters adopted a more American-style approach. They listened politely, didn’t present a counter-point, and then moved onto the next topic of the day. Though I have tried repeatedly to find the actual interview on Play it Again, I haven’t been able to hunt it down. That said, I have since found that the guest is not alone in her effort to legislate commercial imagery.  Recently in Parliament, a similar debate took place and in France last December, a politician there introduced  legislation concerning the disclosure of photo retouching, It appears the anti-Photoshop is alive and well in Europe.

While listening to the guest on Radio4, I couldn’t help but think that though she was raising a genuine concern, what she didn’t acknowledge and what the presenters failed to point out, is that a significant portion of the population want  commercial images (and frequently even personal ones) to be digitally enhanced. Having spent years now photographing people for portraits, adverts and magazines,  I have a good understanding of people’s expectations for a commercial shot–people want look how they feel they look, and generally speaking, true-to-form reality isn’t important.

People who commission a professional photographer expect beautiful lighting, attentive styling and of equal importance–artful retouching of the final product before it goes public. The resulting  image  will be used to promote a product or campaign or in the case of portraits, the personal brand of the subject. People want all the bells and whistles of a retouched photo, but they simply do not want others to know the full truth.  In fact, I would even put my neck out to say that the subjects themselves don’t want the truth. They want an image that makes them look younger, fresher, and more in command than what they see in the mirror.

I believe I’m safe to say that people’s desire to look better than they really do  goes as far back as  Egyptian hieroglyphics, Greek Kouros, or Michelangelo paintings. Can you imagine Mona Lisa with a zit on her forehead? True, these examples are works of art, but the argument that photography should always depict reality is complete nonsense. Commercial photography, by its very nature, is the business of creating an image or brand through photography, and tinkering with photos has been part photography since the beginning of the genre itself.

The camera, film or digits, light and shadows create the image foundation. Developing, post-production and printing are instrumental to creating the final image. Manipulating photographic reality has been integral to creating many of the most beautiful photographs. Starting with the right aperture and shutter speed to  cropping an image to using the  most advanced Photoshop techniques, commercial images are altered.

One of my photography instructors, Karlan Tapp, worked as  Ansel Adams’ assistant. Karlan  shared with our class that Adam’s development process  was like painting a picture. He would spend hours tweaking the process to achieve the precise results he wanted. Perhaps clouds needed to be a bit stronger in a landscape photograph , he would burn in the detail. Maybe the portions of the image needed to be lightened–so  a bit of dodging. Each of the final images was carefully crafted to achieve the final, glorious results.

When I first started hand-processing  black and white photos in the dark room, I too learned to rely upon these key steps in the printing process. As I’m a people photographer, however, I was intent on learning ways to flatter my subjects. Good lighting and proper positioning may form the foundation of a powerful image,  but these are not enough. People demand more from a commercial photographer. Whether it’s smoother skin, getting rid of eye bags or diminishing wrinkles, people want the full treatment from the commerial pro.

I first became aware of photo retouching  when I was seventeen. I’d had my senior portrait done and after selecting the final image from the set of proofs, the photographer Phil Revoir asked me if there was anything I wanted done to the final image. Did I want whiter teeth, brighter eyes or better skin? I was dismayed! I had no clue that this was possible. Without hesitation, I asked if he could make the scar that is  smack-dab in the middle of my forehead less pronounced. He offered to get rid of it completely, but that was a bit beyond reality for my tastes; lessening it was enough for me. When the final photos were delivered,  my scar was less in tact, and I was delighted.

Portrait photography became one of my forte’s during photo school. Using my 4×5 camera, I’d burn through sheets of Polaroids and black and white negatives to get the exact shot. Once taken, I would then set out to create the perfect print. Dodging and burning were of course very handy tricks in the printing process, but advanced retouching techniques to smooth skin or reducing bags under eyes eluded me.

One of the first techniques I tried was using cellophane during the printing process. Typically from a pack of cigarettes and  affixed to a long wire, the cellophane  helped blur the light hitting the photographic paper when waved under the enlarger.  The result was smoother skin in the areas of concern, but it was a very time consuming process, for each print had to be made the same way, each time. I had to write down how many seconds each area needed work on and needed to execute the same precision with for every print made. I found this a time-consuming process, particularly when more than one print was required. I asked one of my teachers,  a skilled portrait photographer  Gary Jentoft,  for his retouching tips. Gary had worked in Seattle and LA for many years, and had even assisted one of my heroes George Hurrell. Hurrell was one of Hollywood’s photographic giants. He was the head photographer at MGM in the 1930′s and remains the  father of  glamour photography. Hurrel’s techniques  both behind the camera and within the darkroom were instrumental in  creating the look of many of Hollywood’s most lasting stars.

Hurrell’s retouching skills were far beyond my rudimentary cigarette wrapper. Negatives were frequently painted with lead paint, he had a special machine to pin prick certain areas of negatives, and endless hours were spent to produce the gods and goddesses of Hollywood. I came across this fantastic example of a portrait Hurrell did of Joan Crawford (of course) from the 1930′s.  All of this done without the help of Photoshop. Simply amazing.

The concept of creating an image through retouching became a hot topic amongst my photo school classmates. There was one camp that was completely against retouching images. “Keep them natural” was their mantra. Though there is a  definite time and place for photos au naturale, I recognized quite quickly that a large segment of the population wanted their photos enhanced, and  I became confident with retouching final images. Yes, a commercial image needs a rock solid foundation that should be present at the click of the shutter, but it is post-production work that transforms a viable image into a commercial product meeting the needs of the client and their visual brand.

In the mid-1990′s I worked for Adobe Systems in Seattle, and it was there where I first came across Photoshop. While chatting with Tina Carter, one of Adobe’s tech support specialists, I learned some Photoshop basics and even more importantly, how the tool was used across the globe.  Photoshop brought the techniques of Hurrell and Ansel Adams to the masses by way of the personal computer–sort of a great photo equalizer. An expert in digital imagery, Tina had even been called in as an expert witness to testify about the veracity of an image during a court case. Working for Adobe, though I had the  opportunity to learn the software, it wasn’t until photo school years later that I really learned how to use it.

Between my first and second year of photo school,  I spent a month learning the basics of  Photoshop. I picked up a book by Scott Kelby and set to work editing the faces and bodies of my friends and family. It brought me back to my childhood when I saw an episode of Fantasy Island and first learned about plastic surgery. A blind plastic surgeon came to the island to regain his sight in order to see the woman of his dreams once more. The woman, probably played by Barbi Benton or Audrey Landers,  had been created by the surgeon to meet his specifications, and for a brief time, I wanted to become a plastic surgeon. That dream became scuppered when I realized I get sick to my stomach at the sight of blood, so becoming skilled in Photoshop was a very viable alternative.

Retouching photos is  a regular part of my routine and varies based upon client expectations. Usually it is to reduce bags and wrinkles, remove spots, and whiten teeth. At times I’ve had to remove chins (that’s tough!), shed some weight, enhance boobs and fix hair. I’ve made people younger, older, lighter and darker. At first I thought it might just be a gender thing, but quickly learned that clients–irrespective of gender–want varying degrees of the Hollywood touch, and most importantly, they don’t want to know about it, nor do they want others to know its been done. About two months ago, the Conservative party here in Britain launched a campaign with David Cameron’s face emblazoned across billboards everywhere. In looking at the photograph, it’s fairly clear that it has had  some work on it. Cameron received quite a bit of ribbing about the photo, but was perfectly happy to deny any knowledge of image tampering.

So what is the alternative? Clearly I am a proponent of retouching. It is integral to commercially viable photos for adverts and magazines. We are a society that places a great deal of emphasis upon image, but this is not new to our modern society. History is filled with people seeking perfection, we  just happen to have more people who have a great deal more  access to image-tweaking tools. Photoshop has given image editing capabilities to the masses, and while the proponents of retouching disclaimers do have a genuine concern, is their concern on par with society’s need for a bit of denial. There is a certain comfort in ignoring the cutting truth that none of us is perfect, all of us are flawed and each of us is getting older. A commercial image–whether of a beautiful woman, a sexy man or a great shot of ourselves–that has been retouched well, can inspire and make us smile. Do people really want a disclaimer to burst that bubble?

A couple of weeks later, Lee and I  went on an impromptu road trip across southern England. My college roommate John was visiting at the time, so the three of use piled into a rental car and set out. I’d recently become addicted to the Ketchup Song and the Cheeky Song and inflicted them on Lee and John on our way to Stonehenge.

It was a dark and stormy January afternoon (sounds like the beginning of a bad horror novel, sorry) but it was perfect weather to visit the ancient site. We then stopped in nearby Salisbury to warm up and have some lunch. While waiting for food to arrive, Lee impressed me with his vast knowledge of Salisbury, a city I’d never heard of, but found rather charming. (Note: the Brits have strict delineations between a city, a town, a village and a hamlet. Because Salisbury has a cathedral, I believe I’m safe to call it a city, as a cathedral is the traditional defining element of a city.

I learned that the spire of the cathedral was once the tallest building in Europe, and it remained the home of an original copy of the Magna Carta. I also learned that Lee has a friend who is a vicar who knows endless amounts of trivial facts, and Lee would text the vicar to get interesting snippets to impress me. That was cool. Over the years, texting our friend the Vicar has evolved into a game we call Text the Vicar. Got a question, text the vicar. Once when Lee and I were in Bristol and we had a question about Isimbard Kingdom Brunel’s suspension bridge, what did we do? Text the Vicar! When passing through a remote village in Cornwall with my friend Eric, a question about Tintagel arose. What did we do? Text the Vicar! While in Paris touring Napoleon’s apartments in the Louvre, I had a question that none of official guides could answer, but did I fear? Of course not, Text the Vicar! came to the rescue with a detailed answer. And as a fitting part of the Text the Vicar! service are the polite subsequent text messages. There is of course my obligatory Thank You text back to the vicar, for which the usual response is “Bless You.”

I digress…so back to the road trip with Lee and John. After seeing Stonehenge and Salisbury, we wound our way down to Brighton where we stayed at Jo’s apartment. She wasn’t there, but had given Lee a key. It seemed strange that this woman would allow a complete stranger to stay at her house when she wasn’t there, but Lee told me Jo was totally fine with it. Who was this woman? I walked through the rooms of her flat trying to visualize her, but as it was a weekend flat, there were no pictures on the walls or any personal effects. Jo remained a mystery.

The first time Jo and I met was upstairs at Patisserie Valerie in Soho. Lee and I met her for lunch, and though the place was filled, when Jo entered the room, I knew instantly who she was. Her beaming smile greeted me as she made her way to our table. A warm handshake and a kiss on the cheek marked the beginning of our friendship.

It’s been over seven years since we first met, and our lives are now quite intertwined. When Lee and I were living in Seattle, Jo came to visit a few times, and her visits were always a welcome event. She was the ideal houseguest: independent, interesting and a great cook. She’d spend her days walking through the city, getting coffee at Bauhaus, buying fresh vegetables from Pike Place Market, and chatting with the locals. We’d meet her for lunch when time would permit, but all in all, she got on with her day and let us get on with ours. In the evening, we’d come together for a wonderful meal which Jo had prepared. We’d share a bottle of wine and countless stories of our lives. It was while sitting in our dining room on Capitol Hill that I first heard of a place called Alderney.

Jo’s late husband, Robin, was from Alderney. His family moved to the island after returning from living in Aden, one of Britain’s lost colonies. The picture Jo painted of life in Alderney was one of an island seemingly lost in its own time. Post-colonialists, mainland escapees, and long-standing families chose Alderney for its quiet way of life and its intrinsic eccentricity.

Jo’s in-laws settled into Alderney life quite easily. They’d throw regular cocktail parties beginning promptly at six o’clock. At five minutes to six, Jo’s father-in-law would bellow out, “There’s a ship full of sailors in the harbour, and not a whore in the house ready!” This was to light a fire under the women of the house to get everything in order. The guests arrived on time—jacket and tie required, gin & tonics served.

The guests were a colorful bunch, and based on Jo’s description, the sounded much like the characters from the board game Cluedo (or Clue if you’re an American). A retired general, an out of commission spy, the heiress, the artist and of course visiting mainlanders. They mingled and chatted over cocktails and hors d’oeuvres while the children served drinks. Yes, even at a young age, kids on Alderney were educated in the fine art of mixing a proper gin & tonic. On the British mainland, one cube of ice with a measure of one to two fingers of gin, topped up with tonic was appropriate; in Alderney, three fingers of gin was the baseline. Add tonic, lemon and serve. The drinks party ended precisely at eight.

For Jo’s birthday this year, she invited her family and friends to visit her Alderney. Lee and I booked our tickets with Auringy Air (the only airline serving Alderney) well in advance and waited in anticipation for the visit. The night before departure, we travelled to our friends’ Patrick and Keith’s to stay the night, as the four of us were driving to Southampton Airport together early the next day.

Lee and I met up at Tottenham Court Road tube station on the Northern Line platform. He met me and help with the bags, and so we could do the rest of the trip together. Our timing was impeccable, arriving within minutes of each other. Walking from the Northern Line to the Central Line we passed a group of retired Americans. Typically, you can spot an American in London a mile away: blue jeans, sweatshirts, loud colors, white tennis shoes and baseball hats are all standard attire—for both the men and women. This group had the distinction of looking Minnesotan, as one of the posse wore a Concordia College sweatshirt.

Husband next to wife and four rows deep, they made their way through the underground labyrinth like a miniature Lutheran army. In passing them, I casually asked if they were from Minnesota. A bit startled that a stranger in London had spoken to them, one of the women replied indeed they were. I told her I was from southern Minnesota but my parents lived on Ottertail Lake by Fergus Falls. “Oh gee! Gosh! What a small world.” Wishing them a good evening in the best Minnesotan accent I muster, Lee and I scurried onto the Central Line to Patrick and Keith’s.

We’ve known Patrick for several years. Before her retirement, Jo had been Patrick’s head nurse and close confidante for many years. Keith and Patrick met a few years back in New Zealand. Keith moved over to the UK in 2008 and has been part of the clan ever since.

Patrick is a delightful cook. His mother is French, and he cooks with a distinct continental flair. Duck confit, stinky cheese, and a bottle of wine later, we tucked ourselves into bed, prepared for the next morning’s road trip.

We made it to Southampton Airport like clockwork. While in line for what we dubbed the Jo Baxendale Express, we met Robert and Jennifer, two other Baxendale pilgrims. As we handed our luggage over to the ticket agent, he informed us our flight was delayed indefinitely because of fog. He instructed us to wait in the departure area until further information was available.

After passing through customs, we met up with Sandra and Gerald, two more of our crew, and the eight of us found an area to sit and chat and eat sandwiches from Costa Coffee (our only option). At ten-thirty we got an update: delayed indefinitely. At eleven-thirty they announced the same. Four of us played a few hands of bridge and just as Sandra finished an exceptional hand, the fire alarm went off.

We were ushered out of the airport onto the tarmac. We waited there for about fifteen minutes and then were brought back into the airport by the security team. Upon our return into the airport, BAA determined there had been a security breach, and all of the remaining passengers (about sixteen in total) had to go through security again. Such an exciting day out!

Finally we got the announcement that the fog had lifted and we would depart at two o’clock, just five hours after our original flight. While queuing to board the airplane, we were given a safety instruction video on a screen right above the door to the aircraft. The door opened and we walked to the plane.

Though Jo had warned me the airplane was small, not even her story having a flask of gin passed to her by her mother-in-law to settle her nerves had prepared me for the Britten-Norman Trislander. Seating seventeen passengers, we boarded as we were called out by name. Even on a good day in a jumbo jet, Lee hates flying. Adverse weather coupled with a three-prop plane only increased the relative excitement (read: anxiety) of the flight. Once we were all seated, the pilot turned around, gave us a quick overview of the flight-plan, started the engine off we went.

The fog obscured our view through most of the flight. About ten minutes before landing, the pilot passed back a scrap piece of paper with the words “Weather in Alderney OK.” Shortly after that, we saw the coastline, then the ground and then the runway. A group of seagulls was hanging out at the side of the runway as we landed. They didn’t fly off or even move as we touched ground. Just a slightly bigger variety to them.

Jo and Jenny met us at the airport. The stress of the fog and a power outage on the island had wracked their nerves, but now we were cooking with gas! The fort we’d been booked at was closed due to the power cut, so we were staying at a newly-refurbished house. We took a mini-bus into town and settled in.

Alderney was lovely. The island has a population of about 2,500, roughly the same size as my hometown in Minnesota. Our rented house was a short walk to the hotel Jenny owns, and just off of the main thoroughfare, Victoria Street. Shops, churches and pubs were mere minutes from our doorstep.

After dropping off our bags and having a cursory gin & tonic at Jenny’s place, Lee and I ventured into the Coronation for a local pint. I was unprepared for the smoke. England went smoke free in 2007, but Alderney is a law unto itself. Though it is set to go smokefree in June this year, cigarette smokers continue to find safety indoors on Alderney. I’d forgotten how much I dislike a smoky place, but was undeterred in my mission to meet the locals. We started chatting with two local guys, Chris and James. They were easy enough to speak to. Chris had once been the President of Alderney Council. He shared with us that upon his swearing in, he had to declare his allegiance to the Queen. He refused, saying that his only allegiance was to the Duke of Normandy, protector of Alderney. When he was told he had to either swear his allegiance to the Queen or forfeit his presidency, he simply shrugged his shoulders and declared his allegiance. Easy enough.

James was from the mainland. Horely in Surrey in fact. Though James had moved to Alderney thirty years ago, his friend Chris still referred to him as an outsider. Lee is also from Surrey, and as we were chatting with the two guys, it came out that Lee and Chris had a friend in common. The Six Degrees of the British Empire. After the chat and the beer, Lee and I made our way back to our place where we had fish & chips for dinner. Everyone was relaxed and in good spirits. We’d beaten the elements to celebrate Jo’s birthday.

On Saturday morning we took a guided tour of the island. Our guide had lived on Alderney for many years, and knew its turbulent history. Our first stop was a German bunkers from World War II. Alderney was the only Channel Island that had been completely occupied by the Germans. Jersey and Guernsey had been partially occupied, but in 1940, all of the inhabitants of Alderney were evacuated. I asked if anyone had stayed behind, and learned that only five residents had remained on the island during occupation. It’s common knowledge that one of the couples that had remained had been spies for Germany prior to occupation. The husband was a pilot off on a reconnaissance mission when the boats came in. His wife refused to board without her husband and remained on the island as well. They remained in Alderney through the war, but curiously disappeared afterwards.

The Germans held thousands of prisoners in Alderney doing forced labor, largely doing cabbage farming. According to our guide, the soldiers enjoyed putting a cube of sugar on a distant plant to entice prisoners. Once a prisoner reached said point, he’d find the sugar cube had been moved, just for sport. We saw a number of memorials to the many people killed on Alderney during the occupation years.

We passed bunker after bunker, fort after fort. Some had been British fortifications, other distinctly German. Lee found the vast amounts of concrete remnants depressing. Yes Alderney had been occupied, and yes Alderney had been a strategic military base, but that was Alderney’s past. What about its future? In many respects Alderney remains a living monument to the War, and perhaps that is the preference of the locals.

As our guide showed us the island, she shared with us the planning permission regulations on Alderney. A person cannot buy a plot of land just to tear down the existing structure to build a new place. New builds can only be built on land that has not previously had a structure, and only three permits are granted a year. To qualify for a permit, you must have lived on the island for at least fifteen years and the house that you are building must be the first house that you have ever owned.

Our last stop on the tour was the cricket grounds. With breathtaking views of the sea, I could imagine an endless summer of cricket (or is that a summer with an endless cricket match) with the all of the island locals coming out. Our guide shared with us that after the War, and upon the return of the Alderney inhabitants, the island held a furniture repatriation festival. All of the furniture that hadn’t been destroyed by the Germans was brought to the cricket pitch. At a given time, the residents were allowed to scramble and pick out all of the pieces that had once been their own. Apparently, the night before the event, parents hid their children in wardrobes and dressers so they could proclaim, “See, it is mine! It has my child in it.” For years after this reunion, people shied away from visiting other people’s homes in fear of finding one of their possessions.

Jo’s birthday party was delightful. We had great food prepared by Jo and her son-in-law James. We shared stories about Jo and even got to sing a song in her honor (not Happy Birthday!) But more important than the party itself, was getting to see a world that once was.

Though we were only on the island for a weekend, we quickly got the impression that the people of Alderney were welcoming to visitors, but actively worked to preserve life as it was. Relaxing planning permission would lead to more inhabitants. A larger runway would allow bigger planes, leading to more tourists, leading to more inhabitants. Perhaps the bunkers remain as a quiet protest against the outside world, lightened only by the occasional picnic or beach blanket bingo on the bunker roof.

On our last day in Alderney, the clouds parted and the sun shone strong. The greens and the blues of the island were vibrant. The island was alive and beautiful. Patrick, Keith, Lee and I walked to Fort Clonque. The tide was out, so the road to the fort could be traversed by foot. When we got to the fort, we sat on the grass and looked back at the island, its bunker-scarred seashore and its quiet grassy hills. A beautiful place facing a battle, which on many respects, is even bigger than any battle it has faced before. Creeping commercialization.

Certainly we all enjoy new creature comforts, but the feeling in Alderney was when something is good enough, why do you need more? On the high street we saw local shop with local goods. Two independent butchers, an antique store. There was one small Tesco’s around the corner…I’m reminded of the song by the Beautiful South, “The world won’t end in darkness, it’ll end in family fun With Coca Cola clouds behind a Big Mac sun.” The question remains, however, can Alderney truly remain an island in this modern, connected world.

The type of home was our first priority. We knew we wanted a house and we wanted it to have three bedrooms. We preferred a Victorian place over a new build, and the property had to fit within a set budget. We poured over web sites and television programs about buying a house. I became addicted to findaproperty.com and rightmove.co.uk, and we spent many nights watching Location, Location, Location and sympathizing with the buyers. While shooting the Women in the City event back in November, I got to commiserate with Location’s presenter Kirsty Allsop on the plight of finding a home in London.

Once the house-style was set, we then went about finding the right area—and we cast a very wide net to be sure. London or elsewhere? Brighton was at the top of Lee’s list (Hove, actually). Bristol and Rye-East Sussex also entered into discussion. Utrecht in the Netherlands came up once or twice too. When Lee took a job in London, however, it became pretty clear that we would remain in London, at least for a while longer.

We then began whittling down which neighborhood we wanted to live in.  If you’re not familiar with  London, it’s a series of villages and towns that over the years have melded into seemingly endless Victorian suburban sprawl broken up by a common here or a  park there. The neighborhoods each have their own local flavor. There exists a north-south divide in London (separated by the Thames). Those that live in the north, rarely venture south and vice versa. I once spoke with a guy who lived in Islington and claimed to have only been south of the river twice in his life. There also exists an east-west divide, largely dictated by postcode. My friend Fiona spelled it out most clearly—she would never consider moving somewhere that didn’t have a “W” in the postcode, and preferrably only with a “SW.”

While Lee and I wouldn’t go that far,  our comfort zone is in the SW zones. In an odd sort of way, London reminds me a bit of Los Angeles. So many neighborhoods all blending into one major city. If you visit London or LA, chances are you only visit certain places and rarely venture beyond the usual tourist haunts. London, like LA, just just keeps on going and going. It has taken me a few years living here to see which neighborhoods I’d most like to live, and which of those are affordable to live in.

We looked in Clapham, in Balham, in Streatham, in Brixton. We checked out Gipsy Hill and Crystal Palace. We visited Sydenham and West Norwood, Herne Hill and Tulse Hill. We even ventured out of south London into Mile End and Stepney Green, but back to south London we went. Peckham, Dulwich, Walworth, and we were nearly sold on a place in Camberwell but we didn’t gel with the neighborhood. Though the house was fantastic, we wanted more in terms of amenities—pub within walking distance, better transportation links and a sense of community.

One evening after looking endlessly at a variety of places, we stopped for a pint at the Antelope Pub in Tooting, not far from our flat in Furzedown.   What was this? A lovely pub at our own front door? Just minutes from Tooting Broadway tube station? A couple nights later we we ventured into another place, the Tram Shed. Could this be true—two cool places to hang out in Tooting?

After a few of the pints at these fine establishments, we added Tooting to our list of possible neighborhoods and tossed out a number of others. Some were too far out, others too expensive. Some had great transportation links, while others were congested bus rides into town. Some were just dire and others just boring. Our aspirations paired with our budget landed us smack dab in Tooting—Broadway, not Bec. While moving from Furzedown to Tooting may not seem like such a big move, it actually had the potential to make life much easier based solely upon proximity to the Tube.

After establishing our neighborhood, we then narrowed our search even further, restricting our search to about seven roads in Tooting, close to the Tooting Broadway Tube station. Lee and I stumbled across a place one night while surfing the property web sites. It appeared to meet several of our criteria: walking distance to Tube—Check! Easy commute into city—Check! South London—Check! Neighborhood that we would want to go out in—Check! Easy access to a park—Check! Fixer-upper—Check! Three bedrooms and a loft—Check! Good-size garden—Um, well we had to give up something. Still, we do have a bit of outdoor space, so that seems to have been balanced out by the rest of it.

We arranged a viewing and instantly felt it was right. After some advice from our mortgage broker, we put in an offer. It was rejected. Back and forth we went. We were up against another couple, but they were  in “a chain,” meaning they had to sell their place before they could buy the new property. Because Lee and I were keeping our flat and renting it out, we were considered a better option for the sellers.

The sellers accepted our offer, thereby beginning the seemingly endless process known as exchanging and completing a sale. Though I have never bought a property before, I found the English system of buying/selling property a very  drawn out process. We had our offer accepted at the end of October/beginning of November, yet it still took until 24 February for us to move in.

Our property lawyer was very persistent and helped move the process forward. We got to see the pithy emails flying between the lawyers from both sides and were amused and slightly concerned about how things were going. Still, we remained optimistic and finally gave an ultimatum—either we move on the 24th of February, or we explore other options. That got the ball rolling. Within a few hours, we got a call from our lawyer saying the date had been agreed and that we could move ahead with our planning.

The move itself was relatively painless. Lee’s sister Sue, her husband David, and Lee’s dad Lynn were instrumental in helping make it go so smoothly. Sue should really be canonized, as she’s a saint with an attitude (if you read this Sue, I mean it in all flattering terms). David is our own action man—give him a heavy box to lift, and he’s already out the door with it. Lynn was our voice of reason, keeping us grounded when it seemed overwhelming. Lee and I were really fortunate to have them provide their no-nonsense approach to the move.

The movers came bang on time. There was a team of about four guys who quickly set to work getting everything into the vans. Within an hour of their arrival, one van was already fully loaded, and they were onto the second. Our solicitor gave us a call around 11 am letting us know that we had completed, and we could get the keys from the agent.

Lee and his dad popped over and picked up the keys. We met at the house and it was ours! It’s now been a couple of weeks since we moved in, but even the first night it felt like home. The place has a really good feel to it. Yes, we have our work cut out for us. The décor definitely needs updating, and some of the rooms need to be reconfigured to make them more functional, but all in all, it’s a great first house for the two of us.

As the years passed, Maurice and Jim went their separate ways and the NAVY t-shirts found their way into the “Sleeping/Running Shirt” drawer. We all have that drawer, or something like it. T-shirts from tradeshows, marketing campaigns, misguided friends, silly purchases. Perfectly functional for certain purposes, but not something I could actually wear out of the house. Invariably the size is wrong too. For some reason, all t-shirts that I have from the US are mumus on me. They might say medium, but they ain’t no medium.

Making it into sleeping/running drawer is of course an obstacle in its own right. Shirts have to meet strict criteria: they must be 100% cotton, they must be soft to the touch, they need to be a comfortable weight and they above all need to be versatile enough to be worn either when sleeping or when running–hence the name of the drawer.

The Navy shirts now live in this drawer along with an assortment of others. A red one with a character from Southpark that some friend gave me years ago. It has holes under the armpits, and 0the character–whom I don’t know at all, is peeling off the front. It is bleach stained and tatty, but still is comfortable and consequently hasn’t been chucked out. There is the Bulk Tank Betters t-shirt from my brother Tom. It’s the perfect cross-training shirt. I sleep really well in it, and it’s the perfect weight for a six mile run. There are a couple of Manhunt t-shirts advertising a hookup site, an Ottertail Lake Beach Club shirt and the a couple of begrudgingly retired shirts–ones that I still really love, but they are too far gone to wear out in public. I could go on, but it’s probably familiar territory for each of us.

When lunch rolled round today, I decided to take a run. I grabbed the top t-shirt in the drawer, my gray Navy shirt. The thought of being mistaken for a navy man fleetingly crossed my mind. Short cropped

hair, generally fit, suppose I could be mistaken for a soldier. Of course if anyone stopped to ask me directions, they’d probably rule out the soldier bit and come to the logical conclusion I was just a guy with a Navy t-shirt. I stepped outside my door and was off.

I ran up Mitcham Lane, and at the pub, I turned left on Thrale Road. Up until a few weeks ago, the pub had been called the Samuel Johnson after the author of the first English dictionary. Apparently Dr. Johnson had spent a great deal of time at Streatham Park, the country estate which once graced the area. When looking at the endless Victorian sprawl, it’s hard to imagine it was once rolling fields of the English countryside.

Thrale Road marks a critical point in my run–it takes me from the developed streets onto Tooting Common, one of south London’s big open green spaces. When I reach the park, I’ve gone a full mile and have a good idea whether the day’s run is going to be smooth or not.

Today I was in THE zone. Great pace, perfect temperature and sunshine. I was just about to the Common when I came up behind two students ambling on the sidewalk enjoying the afternoon. As I moved to the right to pass them, they heard me approach, split down the middle to let me pass through. Their actions broke my concentration and jarred me a bit. I’m sort of like a beagle–can only do one thing at a time. As I ran between them, one of them asked, “Are you going? Are you going for it?” Thinking he meant was I really going for a great run in the park, I replied, “Yeah!” They cheered. I thought it was odd that two young guys would cheer a middle-aged runner, but then the second guy yelled, “Don’t kill any civilians!”

Wait. Don’t kill any civilians? Then it dawned on me: Navy t-shirt, running guy trying to stay in shape–logical conclusion: must be preparing to go to the Middle East. I was several paces ahead of them when I realized what they had actually said, and how misleading my initial response had been. The question at that moment was quite simple–how should I reply to “Don’t kill any civilians!”? Ignore the guys? They were friendly, so that wouldn’t do. Stop in my tracks, turn around and explain that actually I was opposed to the US-lead invasion of Iraq and was wearing a sleeping/ running t-shirt that the closeted ex-boyfriend of one of my friends had given me? That would just be too involved (and my heart rate would fall out of the fat-burning zone). Instead, I simply looked over my shoulder, smiled and gave them a thumbs up. They cheered and I continued on my path.

A lie. An omission of the truth, but a lie nontheless. OK, perhaps that is a bit harsh. It happened so quickly, they were two complete strangers asking me an unexpected question and I couldn’t be asked to really get to the truth of it all. Expedience was the key. When I got home and switched on the news, Lord Goldsmith was testifying at the Chilcot Iraq war inquiry. Goldsmith was the UK’s attorney general who is now famous for changing his mind on the legality of the Iraq invasion in the days leading up to the invasion.

Listening to Goldsmith’s testimony, I couldn’t help but wonder what his reaction would have been if two youths on the street had directed him not to kill any civilians. Would he have ignored them or would he have given them a thumbs up? The UK is undergoing tremendous effort to unveil the truth of the Iraq war. I fear, however, that the truth will never be known, outside a handful of people. The world’s only remaining superpower (at this point) and previous former sun-never-setting colonial power remain untouchable. Did the powers that be threaten Lord Goldsmith? Did they bribe him? We will never know. My Navy t-shirt ordeal is but a grain of sand.

This year over the Christmas holiday I turned forty. It’s an awkward time to have a birthday actually, not because of joint Christmas/birthday presents, but it’s the time of year that people are unavailable. Either friends or family are traveling for the holidays, or they are simply seeking refuge from Christmas pudding and saving up for New Year’s festivities. Whatever the reason, the 27^th of December is generally a very quiet day.

Lee and I initially started with some grand plans for my fortieth, but when decided to buy a house, a trip to the Cook Islands became a trip to Fulbrook in the Cotswolds, where we celebrated with our friends Will & Sean. They have a house called the Rough House just outside Burford, in a village called Fulbrook. Lee and I spent Thanksgiving there with our friend Kwong, and the Rough House is a perfect country escape.

With vacation planning, I’m typically a big picture person. I know where I’ll be, have a general idea of what I’d like to do, but frequently defer the details of the trip to Lee. He is excellent at researching the details, setting an agenda and planning out an excursion. For my birthday trip, however, he wanted to ensure it was truly MY day and tasked me with the actual agenda. I kept it simple: a country walk, a pub lunch complete with a local pint, and ample free time to shoot with my large format camera.

I bought my Sinar large format camera when I started photography school. For those unfamiliar with cameras beyond the world of point and shoot digital cameras or the more coveted SLRs, a large format camera is engineered simplicity. It is constructed of four basic parts: the bellows—the large part in the center resembling an accordion, a metal plate at the front with the lens mounted on it, and a plate of ground glass at the rear of the camera. Holding  this all together is a long rod at the bottom that you use to adjust the front and rear plates to focus the camera.

While in photo school, I spent the greatest part of my first year shooting solely with this camera. My instructors’ rationale was simple—shooting with a 4×5 forces you to work slowly and deliberately to create an image. Nothing is automatic. First off, you put a dark cloth over your head to see what you are going to shoot. Looking into the ground glass, you see the image, but it is upside down. To ensure a crisp focus, you use a focusing loupe and adjust the focusing knobs on the side. If you want to achieve selective focus, you can swing or tilt both the front and back plates of the camera (hence the accordion flexibility) to achieve your desired results.

To expose a shot using a large format camera, you use a light meter. This measures the light and is adjusted based upon the ISO of the film you are exposing. Once you have determined proper exposure, you then manually adjust the lens aperture and set the desired shutter speed. You then manually shut the lens, cock the shutter and are then ready to load the film. (Tired yet?)

Up until recently, when using film for a large format camera, you would shoot a test shot using a Polaroid to confirm exposure and composition before switching to the “final” shot using film. Both Polaroids and film require a special “container” that is put into the camera. Film goes into black plastic things called film holders, and a large format Polaroid is housed in a light protecting paper sleeve (of sorts) with a metal bar across one side. The Polaroid is put into a special device called a Polaroid Back which is then loaded into the back into the camera between the bellows and the ground glass.

Once the back is in place, you then confirm that the lens is shut, aperture and time settings are correct and then you pull up the paper sleeve. The Polaroid back holds the metal bar in place, which is attached to the Polaroid film. This is then left facing the lens waiting to be exposed. You press the shutter release cable, it triggers the shutter and light passes from the lens onto the Polaroid negative. The shutter closes and your films is exposed. You push the paper sleeve back into the Polaroid back, and once it is firmly back in place, you remove the entire back from the camera, flip the sturdy lever on the device from Load to Process and pull the entire Polaroid (sleeve and all) out of the back. It passes through a roller that starts the development process. After about a minute, you manually split the casement and there before your eyes is the developed Polaroid. You then pull out a tube of fixer aka “goop” and smear it all over the photo. The goop is rather pungent and it was our joke during photo school that it was a photographer’s drug of choice due to its powerful huffing properties. Without fixing the photo, it can fade or smear with time.

P55 was my Polaroid film of choice. A black and white film that included a delicate negative from which a full size print or scan could be made. Once the right exposure has been achieved, and you have gooped the resulting Polaroid image, you could neatly rip the negative away from the sleeve and put it in a Tupperware container of water to protect it. Once back at the lab, you then wash with salt water, rinse and then hang to dry.

Once the Polaroid steps have been completed and you’re happy with the results, you then switch to the film holders and expose the actual film. Need to follow pretty much the same steps as above, except you don’t have to pull the film out—you do that in a dark room to avoid ruining the film.

As I’m an early riser, I was up at dawn on the 27th and took my 4×5 out into the field next to the Rough House. It was a damp and chilly morning with a light rain spitting down, but I was prepared with my toasty boots, stocking hat and gloves. Hoisting the large camera and tripod onto my shoulder, I walked up the muddy lane to the small wooden ladder at the edge of the field. The Brits have fantastic public right of ways. Ancient paths have remained working paths to this day. If someone owns a swatch of land and there is a public right of way through it, then people have the right to use it. An interesting note is that the UK’s rural retreat for the Prime Minister is called Chequers, and it too has a public path running through it. Hard to imagine Camp David in the US allowing random walkers. paths are typically trails through the countryside.

While walking along the path, if you encounter a barrier or gate, there is invariably either little ladder to step over or my favorite, a kissing gate . At the rough house, there is a small ladder. I stepped carefully over it and into the field where there is a copse of ancient oak trees, surrounded by a smattering of lone oaks on the periphery.

The oak trees of Fulbrook area a fantastic subject to shoot, anytime of year. Back in November Lee and our friend Kwong visited here and I photographed them then too, still with leaves at that point. Now, however, in the heart of winter, they were perfect skeletons against the cloudy sky. The first shot here is of a cottage framed by the oaks. The picture is smeared because I waited until I was back in the house to goop the shot, and it didn’t set properly. That said, the benefit of the Polaroid 55 is that it has a negative included with it. I’ve saved that and am going to be processing that in the next few days. Stay tuned for the final product. That said, I really like the beaten look that this whole process has given me.

FulbrookAfter shooting through the cluster of trees, I decided to hop the fence and shoot one of my favorite trees. This tree is so slender and stark. the lower right branch follows the curve of the bush in the background. I shot using an extreme tile with this, ensuring that only a small portion of the tree is in focus, with the rest of the shot falling into a soft blur.

I set up my camera and the first shot. I pulled out my first Polaroid. On Boxing Day the night before, I had given a lesson in large format photography to Will’s nephew Archie and counted seven remaining Polaroid 55s. While digital photography has made it so easy for everyone to share photos seamlessly, it has been devastating for the Polaroid company. In 2008 they filed for bankruptcy and sold off their assets. They also discontinued the entire production of their films. The remaining Polaroids that I had in my case were probably out of date, but I figured they would still do the trick.

Finding my way around the camera again proved to be a bit trickier than I had hoped. It’s been about five years since I have consistently shot with it, so I was rusty to say the least. I’d left my light meter back in London, so using my small digital camera, I took a meter reading. Rather than calculating in my head the exposure I’d need for my Polaroid film, I turned to a cool iPhone application called Exposure Assistant. This app allows you to enter the meter reading from one source and it automatically translates it to the desired settings. Quite handy, actually. Once the exposure was determined, I placed the Polaroid back into the camera, made my adjustments and shot. Click, flip, pull and wait. The Polaroid sleeve indicates that a shot takes 30 seconds to develop in 70 degree temperatures. It was significantly colder than that. I slipped the sleeve into my jacket to warm it, all the while enjoying the sounds of the field. Only a gentle breeze and the occasional hum of distant traffic broke the silence.

I split the sleeve and found my first shot was over-exposed. Shot two. Same process. Remetered, recalculated, put second Polaroid in, checked all settings and click. I removed the back from the camera, pulled the sleeve and immediately realized I hadn’t flipped the lever. The film was exposed and another Polaroid wasted. Must be the cold going to my head. Third time a charm–successfully exposed and framed result. Switched to film for a few backups.

By the time I’d finished this second shot, my fingers were numb and I decided it was a good time to call it a day. Lee came out to meet me and helped me schlep the gear back into the house. We warmed up with a cup of coffee by the fire and then made our way to the Swan in Swinbrook for lunch. Mmmmmm…nothing like a pint and some scrummy food for my birthday.

On the morning of the 28th, I took the camera out once more. I had one Polaroid left and had saved it for the Gibbet Tree.

The Gibbet Tree is a legendary tree in England, for it was here that the infamous Tom and Harry Dunsdon were hanged in 1784 for robbery. Their brother Dick died during the actual heist because legend has it he got his hand caught  in a door shutter and his brothers cut off his arm help free him. Dick bled to death. Yes, they are the original Tom, Dick & Harry. The Gibbet tree bears their initial carved in its ancient bark.

Upon finishing my shot, I return to the Rough House and washed my negatives. They are beautiful pieces of art in their own right. In February 2008 Polaroid announced they were discontinuing their film. It’s such a shame. I looked online and a box of 20 can be bought, but it’s $300! Apparently an Austrian photographer and Ilford have teamed up to relaunch Polaroid film for enthusiasts. I never considered myself an enthusiast, but if that’s the case, I’ll become enthused when they sell for a reasonable price.

It’s funny, when I first moved to the UK, I always knew that Thanksgiving was distinctly American, but I had no idea how little Brits knew about the ways of my people. Without fail, if I ventured into a cab or a cafe on Thanksgiving day and the waiter or the cabbie picked up on my accent, they would immediatley launch into a series of questions. “It’s Thanksgiving, eh? Why aren’t you home?” to the more deeper question, “What’s it all about?”

That answer to that question (for me) itself is the heart of why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It’s about giving thanks for what we have and spending it with the people that we are closest with. Pretty straight to the point. Thanksgiving IS my favorite holiday for a number of reasons. I love turkey and stuffing. I enjoy polishing off a nice bottle of wine. I’m not too keen on NFL, but that’s beside the point. Most importantly–no one has REALLY been able to successfully cash in on Thanksgiving. For all the commercialism that America is about, Thanksgiving remains a relatively untapped resource, and frankly I LOVE IT!

It’s difficult to get excited about pictures of turkeys or swatches of brown, cream, orange and mustard. It’s nearly impossible to catapult pilgrims and Native Americans into the league of St. Nick and of course there is always Christmas right around the corner. Still, all of these come together as the reason Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.

This year our friend Kwong was visiting from Seattle. We thought it would be a great time to nip away from the city and enjoy some fresh air. I’d been in Oxford shooting some executives and was just a few miles from Will’s place. Lee and Kwong met up with me later in the evening and we settled into country life.

Will’s place is located just outside Burford in an area that was once owned by Lord Redesdale, probably most famous now not for himself, but for his daughters–The Mitford Girls, six “IT-girls” of the 20′s and 30′s. Our friend Jo Baxendale once lent me their biography and it was fantastic. Pure toilet reading with a bit of history thrown in. Upper-class Brits with Nazis, Communists, Guinness and Churchill all in one family.

Lee and I have been to Will’s place a number of times, and whenever possible, I enjoy taking a walk through the woods, deeper into the countryside and into a little village called Swinbrook, a perfect English village. It’s got the church. It’s got the manor house. There’s a red phone box and a little brook. Most importantly, however, is the pub–The Swan. Apparently when Lord Redesdale died, he handed the keys of the pub over to the landlord, making him the freehold owner outright. Whatever the story is, this little pub is delightful. It’s verging on twee (see Brit dictionary for that word–think white geese with blue bonnets on), but it is truly a lovely place. Good food and good beer.

We had a couple of pints, some nice nosh and then walked our way back to the house. It was a fantastic Thanksgiving day.