Photography to me has always been functional, not artistic. I can appreciate the professionals who see a beautiful moment–adjust focus, zoom, aperture, exposure time…and capture natural perfection. For me, however, it’s an extension of words. Take X photo to capture Y content for archival reasons.
With the ever-improving iPhone camera though, on occasion, the planets will align just so and I capture magic, by some combination of coincidence and technology. I often forget about them, but as I flip through my thousands of photos, I’ll pause on some. Rather than share them out of context, I offer two such photos (taken at Cox Arboretum) with this preface, so you will know that talent played little role in their creation, while still enjoying their aesthetics:
As many from the older generation lament: they just don’t make ’em like they used to. Truth. There was indeed a point in American history when we actually had a proper manufacturing industry. And a core component of this industry was American steel. And in the height of steel’s influence, before petroleum-based plastics and outsourcing, things were created from metals whose only enemy would be rust and time, not wear and tear. Now these icons of the past stand as monuments to another era, seemingly so different from the one in which we live now.
Seeking these icons has become popular enough to warrant its own term: urban exploring. But I find that one doesn’t even have to put effort into it to net results. Sometimes by sheer chance the past will emerge, demanding that it not be forgotten.
Years ago when I had purchased my first iPhone, I would check Google maps (when this was the default map), passively exploring the green belts which stretch their way through developed metropolises. I would trace the routes digitally, musing on what lay within. In the building in which I worked, beyond the parking lot, one such belt resided. No label had been applied courtesy of the map, yet it delineated a zone between the building and the residential section of old post-war houses, presumably built in a time when the nearby factory (still in operation, though I have no idea what it produces) was likely a major factor in the area’s economy. Who knows? It might have been steel.
One day, as was all too frequent in those days, I was desperately seeking an escape from my job. The allure of this mystery zone tugged at my thoughts, and so I set off on a 15-minute excursion (the mandatory minimum break time required by law, so granted unto me by my employer). I trekked to the end of the parking lot and encountered the hedgerow–an unsurprisingly impassible barrier of invasive honeysuckle, bordering a drainage ditch. I decided to trace this line to the end of the lot, and there, just as it terminated into a chain link fence, it parted. The opening was the result of an old roadway, bridging the ditch and dead-ending into a single pole in the grass by the parking lot, obscured from view by the unruly foliage.
Naturally upon this discovery, I couldn’t not continue down the path, so like a suburban Livingstone I fearlessly marched through the vegetation. On the bridge I received a view of the drainage ditch, which from above now appeared to be the remnants of a natural waterway. Below, carp circled while ducks traversed the surface, bathing. It was an idyllic scene of natural serenity in a profane expanse of asphalt, but the road continued, so I pressed on.
After crossing the short bridge, the hedgerow on the far side too disappeared, giving way to a vast expanse of grass, interspersed with groups of trees. The grass, while not meticulously manicured, had still been maintained. It was knee-high, and resembled a prairie, mixed with thistle and clover. Bees merrily conducted their business in the blossoming grassland, and I wondered why this stretch had been mowed. The only clue to this mystery was a series of gas line utility marker poles, spaced regularly throughout the stretch.
Why?
The road bent around a tree grove and there I saw it: the remains of a park. A party gazebo stood, although made of wood, still without apparent structural damage; a set of swings, or what remained, as the swings and chains themselves had been removed; and a steel slide–no doubt anchored with concrete and too much trouble to remove. And running adjacent to the road was a 7-foot chain link fence, topped with barbed wire. Yet amusingly, more drainage pipes passed beneath the road, bypassing the fence with 4-foot diameter concrete tubes. I was happy to see that neighborhood children had discovered this, as a group was playing on the dilapidated remnants of the old playground. Why was this area fenced off? Why had it been closed? Had budget cuts doomed the park? The answer could have been deduced from a notice sign, but any explanation it may have offered had been covered in spray-paint. The children, blissfully unaware of liability, had ignored the notice and all that the fence implied.
Yesterday, we were in attendance at a family function, in a Knights of Columbus charter house. They were extended family on my in-laws’ side, so any common-ground conversational points were limited. For a moment’s reprieve, I stepped outside. The entrance was no sanctuary, as two people were engaged in phone conversations, so I began a walk to circumnavigate the building.
And there, in the back, out of time and place and seemingly forgotten, remained a steel slide. No other playground equipment remained–only this slide. I pondered its existence a moment as I had the park remnants behind work. Surely people know of it, because again the grass was mowed. Why is the grass always mowed?
My daughter, having been eating cake since we arrived at the party, and no doubt needing a break of her own from social over-stimulation, was elated when I mentioned the hidden slide to her. She gleefully skipped off to partake in this forgotten joy.
Why are these things forgotten and disused? In the post-war baby boom, did we have a greater need for them, now no longer after the generation aged? Like the Giving Tree, they sit, silently waiting to give again–any joy that they might still provide.
I took a photo, partly to see my own child enjoying the slide for its intended purpose, partly to prove that the permanence of these old icons was not without merit. Whatever its future fate, proof that the slide brought a child happiness one more time will remain now in the chronicles of family photos, possibly to outlive the steel itself.
One day, I will have a proper office. It will have pleasant lighting, all the electrical and Ethernet hookups I could ever want, a coffee machine, a decanter of fine bourbon, an array of computer monitors, a big comfy chair, and a giant oak executive desk. A man can dream.
According to TV, having this in my office means I’m important
Until that day, I work in the guest room. The desk, a quaint antique writing desk, was not designed with computers and their multitude of peripherals in mind–nor, apparently, a full-size human. Hunched over, I diligently complete tasks for my employer, requiring frequent breaks to stretch the kinks from my abused spine.
Our old townhouse had a room for this purpose, and for that purpose it did indeed serve, until a little person came along. My iMac was then shoved into a corner of the living room, while the computers we’ve purchased since have all been of the laptop variety, necessitating temporary setups and mobility.
When we purchased our house, the basement was a big selling point. It was full-sized, yet unfinished. I saw the potential. And yet, it’s become a giant storage/playroom. The former kitchen table has been ingloriously relegated to serving the creative needs of a developing mind, and consequently one side is now covered in paint. Then last night I thought: “Why am I squished into a corner of the house while the kid gets all the space?” So now I understand the concept of man caves.
I’ve never been so at-odds with my wife that I felt the need to create a room and hang a “no girls allowed” sign on the door, but now with my work-at-home time, I’m very quickly understanding the appeal of a single room for which the purpose is not family-oriented. Imagine a room where I could set something down, and it would actually be there the next time I needed it.
In the meantime, my daughter will just have to learn to share. I turned the craft table, and converted one side into a desk. Now I toil away in the drafty basement, but dammit, I’m not banging my knees every time I shift my posture.
‘This is the 27th of Last Seed, year of Akatosh 433…’
How do I know this? Why, because I’ve done this before…many times before. And Patrick Stewart, once my beloved icon of humanity’s future that will never be (if you say Kirk was a better captain, I’ll stab you), is now the voice of Uriel Septim VII, emperor of Tamriel.
The human mind, while adaptable, remains fragile. And through this combination, it copes with chronic negativity through distraction and self-delusion. And alcohol, but that quickly hits a point of diminishing returns.
So it was during my adolescence, when I had failed to build meaningful friendships, and any social standing I had with my peer group was suddenly destroyed from a move cross-country, when we had first acquired broadband and internet downloads were more innocent, that I discovered in earnest the land of shareware–trial versions of software, and in a time before the synergy of computers and consoles, the place to find games.
Enter: Avernum. It was unlike any game I had encountered before. It was my first encounter with a sandbox RPG. I could travel a fantasy land at will, unrestricted by plot objectives and invisible walls. I could complete stories when I wanted, all the while exploring the landscape and intricate lore of its creators. It was a livable book. I was instantly hooked, and played this series well into college.
Isometrics baby!
Then the XBOX 360 came out, and it’s flagship title, The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion. And while I couldn’t afford these, my roommate, spoiled by a lucrative major, Bio-engineering, and his summer internship at Pfizer Pharmaceuticals–he could. He was also a whore to social popularity, so it didn’t take him long to acquire. It became the immediate go-to game for our circle of friends, bickering over taking turns yet passing the controller in accordance with vaguely defined codes of honor. And like Avernum, Oblivion quickly became my escape from worldly personal problems–job, girls, school, etc.
I wish I could go fishing in that lake
Over a decade later, my own deprecated XBOX 360 still remains wired to my entertainment center for one reason: Oblivion. Other games have since taken center stage, but Oblivion remains eternal–at least until this old console breaks. Through some odd form of emotional conditioning, whenever the stressors of life take their toll, out comes Oblivion.
So when I started cutting back on my drinking, I sought comfort elsewhere. I booted up the XBOX 360, which now in comparison to contemporary hardware sounds like a vacuum cleaner. And in short order, Patrick Stewart began his monologue:
‘I was born 87 years ago…’
From the other room, my wife announced her concern and asked me what was wrong. Apparently she’s recognized this correlation too.
Soon enough, the winter will break and I’ll be occupied with a myriad of other far more productive projects. The levity of spring will usher in another year of life and happy memories. The weather is already changing and I can feel the winter depression and its associated vitamin D deficiency waning. But for now, it’s cold and dark, and I really need to relight those dragonfires and banish Mehrunes Dagon.
As nice as a pit of gravel looks, I do have loftier plans for the rain garden. In the short time since I dug the trench, deluges of rain have already eroded meandering rivulets through the lawn as it slopes towards the neighbor’s yard. This, I note, will need to be addressed long-term, as looking outside I can see that his yard is flooded (although I don’t think I’m the sole cause of it). Amusingly, as if through divine grace, the pond which has collected thoroughly respects the property delineation, defying the normal expectations of water as there doesn’t seem to be much variation in elevation back there. Surely it’s some form of retribution for his throwing fireplace ashes onto my side, or because his kids use my yard as a highway (see the first post of this project). Thank you, universe.
It is for these two reasons: aesthetics and drainage, that I intend to plant things in this rain garden. But what? I could consult my family and their collective expanse of natural science degrees, or I could needlessly peruse the opinions of those whose experience and education level I have no way of verifying. Surely the latter was the better option.
It’s like a dandelion, only cooler
But first, let’s revisit an earlier time, when we had first purchased the property. Being the former home of an elderly woman, the yard and gardens were somewhat neglected. Well, they still are, but I’m getting to it. Anyway, the gardens immediately adjacent to the house and deck were hastily made presentable for showing by someone throwing down inches of mulch. I’m not even certain there were gardens, as every time I dig in one of them I hit concrete and bricks. Three things survived this onslaught of woody biomass: a series of yew bushes, nightshade, and some mystery ugly woody plant that I figured for a weed. I’ve since then ripped out all the nightshade for obvious reasons, once my daughter exclaimed in delight that there were miniature tomatoes growing (however taxonomically accurate–her extended family would be proud). But I didn’t get around to the woody plant. Then winter came and it went to seed. It produced these very interesting looking pods, which my wife harvested and brought inside, mentioning a future arts and crafts project.
Fast-forward back to the present. Ultimately I decided native plants would be the hardiest, and I also wanted plants that would double for a butterfly garden. And what do monarch butterflies like? Milkweed of course, and there it was on the list of native plants appropriate for water gardens. And, my sister had included it in her doomsday gift to me–I mean birthday. It’s a cool gift, though it does kind of looks like the starter kit to a seed vault in my basement (20 different strains of squash, for example). Family was always very important to her, and here she is looking after me for a future apocalypse. They’re also meticulously labeled, consistent with the strain of OCD that plagues our genes (I’ve since catalogued all the seeds in a spreadsheet).
And so, with all the dramatic flair that one can assign to the task of dropping a few seeds into a pot of dirt, I dropped a few of the seeds into a pot of dirt. The next day I was browsing the internet instead of working and I caught a glimpse of an image of a milkweed plant. Specifically, I saw a milkweed seed pod and thought how familiar it looked. It wasn’t until later in the day that I realized the seed pods my wife had harvested were milkweed–the pods which I had ended up moving to the shelf on top of my indoor grow lights, right next to the box of all the seeds my sister gave me.
Milkweed in the winter
Now I debate: was that weed in the garden really as ugly as I remember? It’s only a stick right now so I can’t tell. But it seems pointless to plant milkweed when I already have it growing. Maybe I’ll transplant some jewelweed instead.
