For the love of Christmas

As a kid, I used to love going to get the Christmas tree. My parents would trundle my sister and I up in matching coats, scarves, mittens, and boots and caravan with my aunt and uncle and their dysfunctional brood to some remote, windy, hill top farm to cut down our respective Christmas trees. My cousins, sister, and I would run from one tree to the next, each one bigger than the last, proclaiming this tree to be THE TREE. Of course THE TREE was usually 12 feet tall, seven feet across and wouldn’t fit on top of our car, let alone in our house. But that was what Christmas was too us– BIG; a preamble to a month of good food, colorful lights, flying wrapping paper, and loud, happy family gatherings.

As an adult, Christmas is BIG in a totally different way and the family tradition of going out to cut down the Christmas tree is just one more thing to do, one more thing to be squeezed into the schedule. So that now on top of working, going to the gym, laundry, and other banal domestic chores and errands, I must add writing Christmas cards, shopping, wrapping, baking, traveling, decorating, all while faking good holiday cheer.

Sitting in the car with my family, on the way to get the Christmas tree this year, anxiously jittering my legs, tabulating a mental list of everything to do, and asking my mom how long did she think this was going to take– I suddenly had a vision of myself trying to crush my own Christmas spirit, like a paper cup at the end of a party that I didn’t really want to attend.  It started with wondering more and more about how much of a difference can there be between the Christmas tree farm and the Christmas tree lot? Not much. And it would be so much faster to just pay for a cut tree and screw tradition. But why stop there? Fake trees really are more efficient, but do I really need a tree at all? Wouldn’t it just be easier not to get a tree? Because then I wouldn’t have to worry about decorating the tree and having to take down the tree in January, and oh January– the sweet, gray, cold, peace that is January! If only it was January right now– Agh! Stop it!

And that’s when I realized that for the love of Christmas, to just say screw it. Screw getting home early, beating holiday traffic, hitting the gym, and eating a sensible dinner. Get used to the idea that it won’t be perfect, it will probably be late, and that despite my best intentions and efforts, I will forget a present, overeat Christmas cookies, and be irritated with my family instead of feeling grateful and then feel guilty because of my lack of gratefulness and the aforementioned Christmas cookies. Getting a Christmas tree reminds me that Christmas doesn’t have to be perfect, organized, or efficient. I know mine won’t, but at least at the end of the day, I will have a tall, bedecked and twinkling Christmas tree to show for it; a monument to my love of Christmas.

Nothing more reassuring than a 13 year old, in an ATV with a saw and some rope.
The horror movie is practically writing itself.

The family putting up with me and my camera.

A Day on Sanibel Island

See, I'm not lying. This is the former
President's Park which sadly,
has been disbanded.

My idea of a vacation is to see everything worth seeing in a 50 mile radius of where I touch down. If there is a battlefield, a winery, a museum, an amusement park, or something completely weird and random like a park composed entirely of 18 foot tall busts of American Presidents (get your mind out of the gutter), I’m there and then some. So much so that when I get back from vacation, I’m usually more tired than when I left.

Not that I’m knocking it– it’s a system that works well for me. But this particular family trip to Sanibel Island was different. Maybe it was the smothering heat and choking humidity that Florida can still serve up in September, or maybe it was my growing list of “Things Gone Wrong in 2013”, but I decided a vacation of doing absolutely nothing was just the ticket.

By nothing, I don’t mean that I wasn’t up at the crack of dawn every day taking long walks on the beach, because I was. Or that I didn’t haul my camera bag absolutely everywhere with me– 2,000 pictures and counting, lucky you. But instead of driving to the Everglades, sailing to Key West, or touring the Ford/Edison winter estates in Fort Myers (does “winter estate” sound pretentious to anyone else, or is that just my upbringing?) I stayed on Sanibel Island and fell into a routine; one that I already miss, and that will be the tiny smoldering ember warming my heart during the coldest, bleakest, crappiest, why-oh-why-do-I-live-here, month in Pennsylvania, otherwise as February.

So here’s a run down of a perfect, do-nothing day, on Sanibel Island.

Get up early and pick up some Tribbles, I mean, shells.
Sanibel Island is uniquely positioned in the Gulf of Mexico and is known for it’s multitude and variety of seashells that wash up on the beach. You think you know, but you don’t. Day one, you’re blown away and spend the day hunched over, filling nylon bags with shells, shells, and more shells. By day two, you have a kink in your neck from shambling about the beach like a zombie looking down for the perfect shells and the spoiled air of a 13 year old girl receiving wide-leg jeans for Christmas when they asked for bootcut. Agh! This Banded Tulip shell has a chip out of the bottom– it’s like, God hates me!

Bike ride to breakfast
Trust me, all of the major roads are lined with bike paths which gives you an opportunity to slow down and see the island up close and also makes you feel entitled to eat whatever you want for breakfast and if that includes a 16oz Mimosa, then cheers!

Lighthouse Cafe and Over Easy Cafe

Lay about the beach in a listless manner and read nonsense
This is actually harder than it seems because of the aforementioned smothering heat, the yet to be mentioned sand fleas that bit no one but me, and the Gulf of Mexico looking all innocent and enticing with it’s next-to-nothing waves and extended sand bars. Sharks, sting-rays, and jelly-fish be damned! I am jumping in that ocean!

Watch a thunderstorm roll in
This is Florida after all, and what is a day in Florida without a thunderstorm or a sudden of deluge of rain to throw a hiccup in your plans? We had the last laugh though; as it turns out, rain doesn’t really interfere with floating in a hot tub while drinking a Margarita. Did I say cheers already? Oh, what the hell– Cheers!

Enjoy a fresh seafood dinner and take in the show
My personal favorite. The only thing I love more than seafood, is seafood with a view of the beach. Our first night on Sanibel, my family proposed the idea of dining at an Italian restaurant while on the island. I’m sorry, but if I wanted meatballs, I would go to my grandmother’s; furthermore, I did not fly to Florida to eat Manicotti. Swordfish, crab cakes, BBQ shrimp, and fried scallops on the other hand... And what is the perfect desert other than a beautiful sunset served at your feet with a cold beer in hand?

The Mucky Duck Seafood platter, top.

So over all, not a bad day, am I right? Repeat for five consecutive days and you will start to feel like a human being who doesn’t need a smart phone other than to send “Na-nana-naa-nah!” pictures to all of your relatives and friends back home. Now as for next year.... I don’t know, “Winter Estate” and “Airboat Tour” is starting to grow on me.

I am not a Wino, but...

I kinda dig it. Lately, I have been pestering my friends and loved ones to go to wineries with me. And it’s not because I have a sharp pallet or that I know anything about wine. For years, I was intimidated by the whole culture of wine and turned off by all of the pretentious wine snobs on TV like Frasier. But thinking about it, I have narrowed down my top five reasons why I love to go wine tasting:

1. My wine addled compatriots
From my chosen company to the winery pet to the guy who is well on his way to finishing the bottle on Sangria on the patio out back, a glass of good wine is complimented all the more by good company.

Mutts and Merlot Event at Hauser Estate Winery, Gettysburg, PA.

Music in the Vineyards, Nissley Vineyards, Bainbridge, PA

Enjoying Life from the feline perspective, Becker Vineyards, Stonewall Texas

2. A long rambling walk
A visit to the vineyard is not complete without a long stroll on the grounds. And if that stroll happens to be on hillsides that overlook a beautiful lake, lavender fields, or bucolic farmland, who am I to complain?

My latest acquisition

View from Hauser Estate Winery, Gettysburg, PA.

Taking a stroll, Bully Hill Vineyards, NY

3. Happiness in the bottle
If you had a housewarming, bridal shower, or birthday recently, you probably got a bottle of wine from me. Usually, I am traveling when I go wine tasting and bringing back a bottle of wine for a friend is like sharing a part of my experience and my travels with them. And something more, this quote sums it up better than I can...
   

Sideways: I like to think about the life of wine. How it's a living thing. I like to think about what was going on the year the grapes were growing; how the sun was shining; if it rained. I like to think about all the people who tended and picked the grapes. And if it's an old wine, how many of them must be dead by now. I like how wine continues to evolve, like if I opened a bottle of wine today it would taste different than if I'd opened it on any other day, because a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity.

4. Swirl what?
I have finally found a hobby that I don’t care if I’m really good at it, which is such a relief, because I will drive myself insane with my constant quest for perfection. I always thought you had to be on the know to really enjoy wine, but wine tasting isn’t about knowing it all. I don’t have a sharp pallet nor aspirations of building a sophisticated wine collection. Don’t ask me about complexity, concentration, balance and harmony, or the length of the finish, because I have no idea. Wine tasting is about enjoying the experience and of course, drinking some wine.

5. Poems for the inebriated
One of the best jobs/tasks in the world must be naming and writing the descriptions for wine, second only to naming the Meerkats on Meerkat Manor on the animal planet (Squeak, Bubble, Hannibal, Flower, Einstein, Mozart, Pancake, need I go on?)

Honestly, the descriptions always make me giggle and read them aloud to the great annoyance of everyone. Full of imagery, importance, texture, and sometimes whimsy, the descriptions are enlightening and entertaining reads in-between pours.

Some of my favorite descriptions:

Sweet Walter Chardonnay

This sassy Chardonnay has lush overtones of Butterscotch and tropical fruit, with a rich and creamy finish.
Niagara Spring White

Like a stroll through the vineyards at harvest time, this Niagara is floral with a sweet, soft finish.
2011 Baco Noir Reserve 

This captivating wine has a deep color and vibrant acidity, dark fruit aromas are met with a hint of smoke & leather.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

So let’s just say you are planning your wedding. You have a hundred different things to coordinate, dozens of well-meaning relatives to appease, thousands of small details to incorporate. Your brain quickly turns from an organ of high functioning reasoning to one of those blow-up playhouses filled with screaming kids, and oh don’t look--- that one just puked. Gross.

The question quickly becomes not what can I include, but what can I cut out to keep myself sane? Often times, it becomes the small personal details and touches that get
left by the wayside because they don’t matter, or so you’re told. While I’m in agreement
that napkins folded into doves for each place setting or die cuts in your invitations aren’t going to make or break your wedding, I think the small details do matter. The personal touches that you take joy and pride in, the mementos that you include, the colors that define your wedding– do matter, and I say this not only as a girl but as a photographer.

In August, I had the privilege of second shooting a wedding with Tim Smith Photography. This isn’t my first wedding with Tim, so we already have an understanding that I’m responsible for getting the detail shots: the flowers, the jewelry, the programs, etc. The things that you spent countless hours picking out, designing, worrying over, and that make your wedding– your wedding. And while the small stuff can be expensive or time consuming or aggravating or completely unnecessary or God help you, all of the above, they add a layer of texture and personality to your wedding that makes it unique and different from every other wedding.

So my advice is to sweat the small stuff, some of it at least. If not for yourself, do it for your photographer. ;)

 

 

The Waiting Game

My dad is a hunter. As long as I can remember, the end of summer always included long walks in “the woods” on “the mountain” with my dad to decide where he was going to put his tree stand for hunting season.

As a kid, I understood a good location for the tree stand was step one in the process to getting the ultimate pay off: venison bologna in my lunch box— I skipped over the killing part. To those of you wrinkling your noses, I am shaking my head sadly back at you because you have no idea what you’re missing. To those of you who are now salivating at the thought of venison bologna, I proclaim you my people.

As a teenager though, I began to wonder, what did my dad do all day in the tree stand when he didn’t even see a deer, let alone shoot a deer? He didn’t bring a book or any other forms of entertainment, unless you counted toilet paper. If he didn’t shoot anything that day, was he still a hunter or just a guy sitting in a tree with a full bladder and a loaded gun?

As an adult, this summer, I finally got my answer. My parents bought 15 acres or so in Sullivan County for my dad to hunt on and build a cabin. They affectionately call it “The land”. We’re good at naming things in my family. My dad proposed that we go and sit in an old existing tree stand on the property to see if we could spot any deer and I could get some wildlife shots. Afterwards, we could get breakfast.

Now just to recap, my dad asked me to sit in a tree with my him for hours on end without talking. My answer, sign me up! Now fast forward, we’re on the land and hiking back through the woods to the tree stand. My dad, is ahead of me leading the way, pushing through brush and undergrowth and mud while I try vainly to keep up with him. It’s hard though, because while he is bent on finding the tree stand, I am consumed with fears of ticks, spiders, snakes, and poison ivy.

At last we push through into a small clearing, and I get my first look at the tree stand. Hoisted some 20 feet in the tree, the small wooden stand with two sides almost seems to flow, a rowboat in a sea of green. The platform is accessible only by a questionable wooden ladder with rusty nails protruding which we proceed to climb, hand over hand, foot over foot.

 

By the time we reach the platform, I’m not thinking so much of the wildlife I’m going to see, but at least four different ways I could die out here: Lyme’s Disease, snake bites, Tetanus, and a blood clot from a compound fracture in my leg resulting from the collapse of an old wooden tree stand. I am also thinking about work, my bladder, and when the aforementioned breakfast would be coming.

There isn’t room to turn around or stretch even; it is a life-raft for one. Hunkering down on the edge of the platform, I swing my legs out over the edge of the ladder, camera bag resting between my legs, dad standing behind me looking out in the opposite direction and proceed to wait, and wait, and wait.

I’m not overly concerned about not seeing a deer or wildlife right away. I have a healthy expectation of wildlife to behave like wildlife: elusive and crafty. Honestly, I know I’ll be lucky to spot a porcupine. We are adrift, and there is nothing to see but leaves and some  blue sky. I begin to count all of the different shades of green and the new shades exposed when the leaves turn.

There is nothing to hear but the wind cresting and flooding though the trees making the wood creak and shift around us. Far away and then closer, we can hear the trill and calls of birds and the echoes of their songs building.

There is nowhere to be and time becomes measured in the movement of shadows and the intervals in between bug bites. And suddenly, I know what my dad loved about hunting and it wasn’t the adrenalin of the kill. I mean I’m sure that’s part of it, but I think the biggest pull of all is the sweet bliss that is nothing.

So what’s the point of sitting in a tree stand with no personal wildlife show on the half hour? With a full bladder and no public restrooms? With bugs and a genuine concern about falling to your death? Absolutely nothing— and hopefully this fall, bologna.