I’m consistently surprised by what does and doesn’t work on this blog. I’ll pour my heart into a post and when it goes live, crickets: few views, few comments. Other times I’ll dash off something quickly, something I don’t really care about, just to feed this beast — and it will take off. My three most-viewed posts are like that: two about getting film developed (here and here) and one about grammar (here).
I was thrilled when last week’s post about photographing an ice storm’s aftermath was so well received. A few readers shared it around, and so it got five times the views a new post normally gets around here. I even got an email from a famous blogger, who I didn’t know read my blog, telling me that my story lingered in her mind for two days. So let me share one more photo from that day in 1990, at a moment when the clouds parted.
What a great day, walking through the park with my camera after the ice storm!
It was 1990. I was 23 and didn’t know myself yet. Who does at 23? College was about a year behind me; I had gone to work. Trying to figure out what it meant to be an adult, I mimicked what I saw growing up. My parents went to work come hell or high water, even when sick, even in treacherous weather. The ice storm had blown hard all night. The radio said that roads were dangerous. Dutifully, I drove to work anyway.
The trees sparkled, their bare, drooping branches coated in ice. How beautiful they were! I wanted to stop and look, not drive, not pay attention to the road. But keeping my car straight took all of my concentration.
Ice-laden power lines had snapped and lay in the streets. Power was out at the office. Dim light from distant windows lit my way past cubicles to the break room. There I found a few co-workers huddled around tables drinking gas-station coffee, shivering in their coats, hands around cups for warmth. A couple of them nodded at me when I entered; most stared blankly into their cups.
I stood there for a minute, uncertain. There would be no work until power returned. I wanted to be out among the trees. And then, impulsively, I did it: I left.
As I stepped quickly toward my car, I felt free, elated — and anxious. Would I be in trouble the next day? Could I be fired? But I was in all the way. Driving slowly, carefully toward home, I made my plan. I would stop at the drug store and buy film. I would walk the one block from home to Collett Park and photograph whatever I found glistening with ice.
I walked carefully; the sidewalks were as slippery as the streets. When I stepped into the grass, it crunched under my feet.
Growing up in South Bend, I was used to bitterly cold winters with heavy snow blowing in off Lake Michigan. Terre Haute’s relatively mild winters were so easy! But Terre Haute got about one ice storm each winter. I’d never encountered anything like it. Such joy I felt in the discovery that morning that every inch of a chain-link fence would be coated in ice, just as would an enormous slide on a playground.
Ice dripped off horizontal surfaces. Had it thawed a little and refrozen? I wondered.
On the playground, the chains on the swings were frozen solid. I pulled one of the chains and the ice broke at a weak point. I thought that was so cool that I operated my camera with one hand while I held the chain with the other.
There would be no tennis this chilly day. Ice clung even to the net!
I had no camera skills at 22 and didn’t know that my point-and-shoot camera couldn’t focus closely. My intended subject, the branch, was out of focus. But thankfully this miffed shot gave me this broad view of the park. I so enjoyed Collett Park. I walked up there all the time and took strolls, or sat on a bench and watched people go by.
The sun came and went all morning. When it came, the ice in the trees lit up with a paradoxical warmth.
The cold stung my hands, bare so they could work the camera. I suffered for as long as I could because I didn’t want this rare joy to end. But my hands finally went numb. This time would have to end. I walked back toward home, stopping at the top of my street to photograph the street sign and the tiny icicles hanging off it.
Back home, I took one more shot, of stubby icicles hanging off the clothesline.
What a great morning! Returning inside, I made some coffee, turned on the radio, and puttered around the house the rest of the day. I felt great peace and surprising satisfaction — until the next workday, where anxiety struck over the hooky I had played. But the boss never said a word. I heard that the power came back on too late the day before for any real work to get done anyway.
25 years have passed. Today I know that this day was so me. I didn’t then, and I’d like to go back now to that happy afternoon of puttering and have a chat with myself:
Middle-aged me: Young me, pay attention to today and learn from this. You had a great day! Why do you think that is?
Young me: I’m not sure. But the ice really captured my attention, and spending the morning taking pictures of it really energized me. I really hope those photos turn out! I don’t really know what I’m doing with a camera. But I wanted to remember what I saw today.
MAM: You will. Actually, you will never forget this day, in part because you will always have these photographs and every time you see them they will bring back all of the good feelings this day generated. Do you have any idea why today brought so much joy and pleasure?
YM: I don’t.
MAM: Young me, please listen carefully to this: You felt this joy and pleasure because this morning you were fully you. You went off by yourself to explore. You experienced something new to you. You tried to really see it, and you used a camera to do that. And so when you came home, you felt lighter and happier. You felt energized and more ready to go out into the world. Young me, know that going off by yourself is how you restore your energy. And you love to experience new things. And you do see things best through a camera’s viewfinder. And every photograph you take will catalog a memory you might have lost otherwise. Make time for this to happen regularly in your life.
YM: But film and developing are expensive. I don’t make very much money.
MAM: Budget for it. You will not regret it. When stress runs high, explore with your camera. When you’re lonely, explore with your camera. When you are all peopled out, explore with your camera. You will refresh yourself.
YM: But …how do I even say this? I’m the only person I know like this. I feel so weird and out of place.
MAM: I understand. I know you wish you cared about football or golf so you’d have something to talk about with the guys. But I want to urge you to pursue the things that make you happy anyway, and try not to care whether anybody else gets it. And know this: in time, you will find others who love to spend a morning out walking with their camera, too. They’ll enjoy looking at your photographs, and you’ll enjoy looking at theirs.
Alas, that conversation didn’t happen. I didn’t figure this out for another 20 years. I’m glad I did! But I would have liked to figure it out then.
When this blog was brand new in 2007, I wrote a post about these photos called “A good icing.” It was my fourth-ever post; read it here. That post used scans I had made from prints. When I scanned all of my negatives last year, these images looked startlingly better than the print scans. I thought I’d re-run “A good icing” with these new scans. But when I reviewed that old text I decided to start over and tell this story from a different perspective.
A foot of snow fell. Then the temperatures plunged well below zero. That was enough to shut Indiana down.
Just before the cold arrived, but not before the snow stopped, I went out to clear my driveway. The dense, heavy snow weighed everything down. Tree branches touched the ground, the same ones that clear my head when I mow in the summer.
Serious snows are rare in Indianapolis. But they were common in my hometown of South Bend in the late 1970s and 1980s when I was young but old enough to lift a shovel. I’m plenty familiar with removing this much snow, but since moving this far south I seldom have to do it. Thank goodness. My middle-aged body hurts for a good long while after this much exertion.
I frequently don’t bother shoveling my driveway because Indianapolis winter snows are usually pretty light and are often followed by a melt. If God’s going to take away what he gives, I’m going to let him! And that’s going to happen this time, too – it will be in the 40s this weekend. But the snow was too deep to drive through, so I removed it. Well, all except for around my second car. Thanks to the coming melt, it will hit the road again soon enough. Until then, I’ll drive the car I keep in the garage.
I was running out of daylight anyway. I needed to hurry and get the main part of the driveway done.
The snow didn’t stop falling until well after dark. Morning greeted us at 17 degrees below zero. The mayor declared an emergency and travel was forbidden. So it went across most of the state – this weather effectively closed Indiana. I worked all day from my home office.
I did take a break during the afternoon when the temperature rose all the way to -11, the high for the day. I went out and cleared four more inches of snow off the driveway. Fortunately, it was light powder and cleared quickly, because even wearing many layers and my heaviest winter coat -11 is mighty, mighty cold. My nostrils kept freezing shut! After I came in, it took an hour for my feet to warm back up.
By the end of the workday I was starting to feel a little isolated, so I turned on the local news for company while I ate my dinner. I also fired up my Roku to watch Tagesschau, the evening newscast from Germany’s ARD television network. I spoke German almost fluently a quarter century ago, but have hardly used the language since. Watching Tagesschau is a feeble attempt at keeping what’s left of my German abilities sharp. I understand about half of every newscast.
I was delighted that Indiana’s weather plight was recognized even in Germany. It helped me feel better, especially since I needed to work from home one more day thanks to continued deep cold and ice-covered streets.
Also check out the ice storm we had a few years ago. Indiana winters, whee.
Work has been consuming me lately and it’s left me with less time to write. It’s time for my annual meditation on autumn, but this year I’m getting this 2010 post out of the archives and running it again.
The coming of autumn has always made me grumpy. It means winter is around the corner, and I hate winter. But my ill temper was no match for last year’s drop-dead gorgeous autumn. It made me realize that all my life, as soon as the temperatures cooled and the leaves turned, winter began in my mind. Living in the future, I missed the joys of the present.
I trace my anti-winter bias to my kidhood. Autumn meant returning to school, relegating summer’s fun to memory. It’s funny how our youthful attitudes can linger long past their usefulness, but I still feel free in the summer and burdened in the winter. I’d rather wear shorts and T-shirts than layer sweaters and heavy coats. I’d rather mow the lawn than shovel the driveway (especially after shoveling my way out of the Blizzard of ’78). I’d rather open the windows than turn on the heat (and pay the bill).
But I’m finally able to enjoy autumn’s beauty, and it’s great.
My newfound appreciation of autumn can’t supplant my love of spring and summer. I will probably always feel a little sad the first day I have to wear a jacket and the first evening I drive home from work in the dark. But maybe I’ll accept these changes more easily now.
I am still going to hate winter, though!
One of the most satisfying photos I’ve taken is of an autumn sunrise. See it here.
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