Out of Reception: My Last Month of College

I sat in my kindergarten classroom distracted by the other ruffians, the possibilities of the cloudless sky outside, and my teacher's shoulder pads. Idly playing with my hands, I picked at a patch of road rash from a bike accident a week earlier. Quietly ticking over Mrs. Basham's shoulder, the big hand crept towards 9 and the promise of wall ball and the creaking swing sets. The moment the bell rang, I knocked over my chair as I scrambled to the door.

Seventeen years and 3,300 miles away from the linoleum floors of my cold war era elementary school, I pass time in the final classes of my conventional education, checking my watch with the same eagerness as an ADD five-year old. Excited by the prospect of new experiences and a faster pace of life, I kick back in my chair. Instead of staring into the depths of my small hands, I flick and tap on the screen of my iPhone taking pictures of my last month of college.

Colby's woodshop in Sidney, Maine.

My last field trip, Belgrade, Maine.

Spending an afternoon in Sheep's Meadow, Central Park.

Subway maintenance, New York.

Riding my De Bernardi, Waterville Maine.

Master's weekend, Middlebury, Vermont.

Apartment searching, West Village.

Sitting by the Johnson Pond, Colby College.

Enjoying New England's oysters.

A Frito Bandito in Vermont.

Hopefully this time, I won't knock over the chair.

All of these photos were taken with my iPhone 3Gs and filtered with Colorcross from Camerbag.

Here are some more links,
Out of Reception: My Last Month of College (Picasa),
Out of Reception (ART).

Telling Stories Through Barn Windows

New England's barns inspire me. Despite having similar basic designs, each one tells a story about what happens inside of it, the animals and people it houses and the seasons it endures. Some are the pride of yuppie families from big cities, others are functional parts of a farm passed down through generations of rugged farmers. Regardless of their condition or creed, old barns capture the story of their surroundings.

Like a young boy unable to take the entire beach with him, settling only on a lone sand dollar, I collect barn windows. Better than a picture, these windows act as a tangible homage to the buildings they once belonged to. Rummaging at flea markets, hunting at dusty antique malls and asking retired farmers if I could pick apart their collapsed barns, I am on the lookout for unique windows that remind me of New England.

A barn tells a story about the land it rests on. A photo depicts a similar narrative about a unique setting.

Feeling like Samuel W. Francis, the genius that combined the spoon and the fork into the spork, I sat on my bed taping pictures to an old window. Organizing the photos as I would a blog post, the window framed a story, more coherent and insightful than a standard print.

Scrapers and sandpaper remove flakes and loose paint from the windows.

Coats of water-based lacquer protect the old paint and keep it in place, ensuring that the window will keep its story intact.

Tucker working on a window.

The glass is scraped to remove years of paint, lacquer and dirt.

Epoxy anchors the glass panes to the frame.

No two windows are alike and each narrative of photos is printed once. The windows add context to the collection of photos, conveying a coherent story. I envision a window filled with images of food overlooking the kitchen and another window hung in the den acting as a portal to the Maine coast. I will share these windows on my blog and they will be available for purchase.

Here are some more links,
Telling Stories with Barn Windows (Picasa),
Windows (ART).

Feels like Summer

Twilight transitioned to a cool, starlit night as a group of microbrew-lubricated men gathered around a ten foot high pile of miscellaneous wood like a group of soccer moms waiting to run through the doors of a Saks semi-annual sale. Adhering to an unspoken rule, they waited, smoking cigarettes and taking swigs from solo cups, until the architect of the soon to be engulfed tepee slowly and deliberately made his way towards the pile. Clutching a solo cup and lighter in one hand and an old New York Times in the the other, he marched over to the pile with a grin known to many trick-or-treaters.

Thirty foot flames quickly illuminated the apple orchard and thirty or so people headed towards its heat like like Midwest bugs towards a light. Laughing and chatting, small groups of friends subconsciously experimented with their appetite for heat, eventually creating a twenty foot radius around the fire.

Intrigued by the promise of friends, Weber Grills, kegs of local beers and the beauty of the Maine countryside, people from around the Northeast descended on a small orchard in Limerick, Maine to celebrate a friend's 40th birthday, or as the title of the invite called it, turning 14 for the 27th time. Bringing camping gear and their meat of choice, the partakers eagerly set up shop in the rows of trees early in the afternoon and embraced the late April day with the same gusto as rednecks at a NASCAR race.

Red toes and leather sandals.

The sun lingered in the sky overlooking the farm like a parent picking their kids up from a party, nursing the proposed five minutes into an actual fifteen just to see the laughs and smiles.

The orchard and barn serves a sculpture workspace for Sandy Macleod during the day.

Comforted by the sun and the smell of budding fruit trees, people hooted and explored the rows of apple trees, marked by the occasional kinetic sculpture. Cheeks and noses turned pink as the season's first sun caught overzealous minglers off guard.

The kabob assembly line, accelerated by beverages and a sinking sun.

The last glimmers of sunlight.

A well loved apple grinder.

A one log fireplace in a bedroom above Sandy's studio.

Joe the birthday boy and Sandy, the host of the party.

I love the color red.

As the fire's heat subsided and the solo cups emptied, people meandered back towards the house and the comfort of leftover potato salad, more beer and cold shrimp kabobs. I yawned and stretched, shivering in my shorts and LL Bean mocs. It felt like summer.

Here are some more links,
Feels Like Summer to Me (Picasa).

Playing in the Woods

Holding my Swiss army knife in my right hand and pulling down with my left, I sliced through the topside of the bending maple branch. Making little headway, my arms tired and I let go, dropping six inches to the ground. "I can't believe mom dulled my knife, she never does that to yours," I yelled in frustration to my younger brother, Tim, stacking seven-foot tree sections in a tepee formation some fifty feet away. Tim had no scars on his hands, mine looked like a pair of RRL jeans.

"Let me see yours," I said motioning to the small red knife in his hand. Thumbing the blade open, I avoided the bandaids on my index finger and rubbed the blade. "Yah, yours is much sharper. I am almost nine and mom wont let me have a sharp knife," I chirped like a senior complaining to the coach when a sophomore gets the start at homecoming. Tim said nothing and kept pulling the bark off a freshly cut sapling.

Walking back to the tree, I jumped up and hung on like Stallone on the cover of Cliffhanger. With a downward yank of the pocket knife, the small branch cracked under my weight and I fell to the ground with an accomplished grin on my face. Holding the knife in one hand and the branch in the other, I jumped up and dragged my prize back towards our recently conceived tepee.

Popham, Maine.

Without the luxury of abundant neighbor kids and the infrastructure afforded by suburban playgrounds, my brother and I wandered aimlessly through the hundred acre woods that surrounded our house. Shooting slingshots, dirtying clothes, playing like cowboys and Indians, and making forts and dams, we passed our time in the forest.

Small Point, Maine.

A decade and half later, I still venture into the woods when restless and frustrated. Trading in my LA Lights for Danner Hiking boots and Vibram Fivefinger running shoes, I explore the woods at 22 with the same youthful exuberance I did at 8-1/2.

North Belgrade, Maine

Western Maine.

Kennebec Highlands, Maine.

Prindle Mountain, Washington.

Other than maybe a Bruce Springsteen Concert, few places could could jointly host Choco-wearing Trustafarians from New England and Cabela's-outfitted deer hunters from the rural Midwest like the woods do. Regardless of their political standpoints on the duration of the waiting period to own an assault rifle or eagerness to pack their bowel movements out in plastic bags, they are drawn to the woods in a similar way. The woods are special.

Here are some more links,
Trees (Picasa),
The Woods (ART).