johncropper.net

I've moved.

In an effort to consolidate all of my personal and professional writings into one site, I created johncropper.net, where I'll be writing from now on. Eventually I'll have this page re-route there, but I wanted to give some heads up first.

Word.

Red Sky at Night...

Despite all of my camera whining, I was pleased with how these shots of a colorful night-sky turned out last night.

Three second exposure, with a soccer cleat for a tripod. Not too bad for last minute improvisation.

The Camera Search: Time for an SLR

I need a new camera. It's become increasingly apparent to me that my current camera, which I've been using for more than three years, has run its artistic course. The rift in image quality between my point-and-shoot, not-bad-but-not-great Fujifilm and an SLR is just too big, and I need an upgrade. Now if only I had the money.

My dilemma, though, is my living situation. As VISTAs, our living stipend is deliberately set below the poverty line to best integrate us into our community, and to live a year of poverty. So VISTA volunteers aren't supposed to buy newfangled material things, much less $2000 cameras. But I've only come to realize my camera-envy through photographing our projects at Grow Food, Grow Hope. I can't help but think that most of what I've shot already would look markedly better with an SLR, and a new camera is more of an investment than a compulsive buy. And so I want one. So there.

My camera sells used for around $200, and I've already been perusing the interwebs for used camera bodies and lenses. Does anyone have an SLR they want to part with, or know someone who does? I've got no preference between Nikon or Canon, but it needs to be one of those two.

I might have to wait till I'm out of technical poverty to get a new camera, though I'd rather not; what's the going rate for kidneys these days?

The Post Graduate 5

It's hard not to feel a little impressionable after a day like today.

Sometime between the end of summer and the beginning of fall, I let slip any motivation I had built-up to run on a regular basis. My ten miles a week turned into two nights of Ultimate, which is itself great exercise, but not enough to wrest my metabolism into motion. I've also taken full advantage of the student meal plan we're given as AmeriCorps* volunteers, and a few reminder pounds have shown up unannounced. (Not quite the Freshman 15; call it the Post Graduate 5.) In all of this, my body has made it clear: eat less, or sweat more.

And so, I've resolved to start running again. It's a sort of mini-epiphany, the kind I curiously only have when the weather gets crappy and the number of nice days in a month starts thinning to a handful. But it's nothing new. My athletic ambition is bi-polar, it seems, and without a working calendar.

But how I came to realize my lapse in running could easily be a case study in Advertising. A book review for Christopher McDougall's "Born to Run," which first caught my attention on a library shelf almost a month ago, led me to order the book online this afternoon. A link to an interview with McDougall turned my interest to long-distance running, and from there I linked to an article on the benefits of running barefoot. I remembered my own tattered running shoes, and rationalized that I should probably buy a new pair if I want to run in earnest. A trip to the shoe store tonight yielded not just a pair of shoes but also two pairs of running shorts (on sale) and some padded Dri-fit socks for good measure. In all, one advertisement on the sidebar of a website netted $84.36 of economic activity, from me alone. Every ad rep in the country is trying to figure out what it takes to make a lot of people do often what one person does occasionally: Read an advertisement -> spend money.

If nothing more, I contributed $84.36 to the economy, and realized a routine that I shouldn't have neglected. I guess there's nothing wrong with feeling a little impressionable sometimes.

First run comes bright and early. Time to chase the Post Graduate 5.

Time Spent Driving

Slowly, I'm becoming well-acquainted with long drives.

For several months now I've made the trek up I-71, the northeasterly vein that pumps traffic from my hometown of Wilmington to my home-away-from-hometown in Columbus, some 60 cornfield miles away. Almost three times a week I set out, most often in the late afternoon but sometimes before the sun is up, and push my car along. My sluggish but reliable Prizm shrieks and moans during the first few minutes of every trip, but then, like clockwork, it settles into the well-worn hum of 80,000+ miles and counting. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy these trips.

Setting aside my ghastly carbon footprint for a moment, a lot of good comes of this time spent driving. It's one of the few times during my week when I'm forced to think, uninterrupted. Most of my best ideas (though they are few) seem to come when I'm playing steering-wheel drums to Yo La Tengo, or crooning along with Ray LaMontagne. Strange as it sounds, I feel more connected with the farmers and cattlemen as I pass their homes and roadside livelihoods along my route. I'm sure I'm alone in this regard: most of my fellow travelers are barreling headlong to some distant Point B, while I'm cruising and content at 65 in the slow lane.

A recent trip from Wilmington to Columbus brought back memories of another long drive from my past: a trip across the plains, from Ohio to Colorado and back with Miss Frankie. We had already been driving for twelve hours on the first day of the trip when the strip-malls of Kansas City disappeared, and the rolling expanse of eastern Kansas spread out around the highway. We were speechless, awed by nothing (or, so much of nothing). Before driving through it, my mental image of the Great Plains was shaped exclusively by Steinbeck and the Wizard of Oz. They were right on. But it wasn't long before the serene landscape and gently blowing tumbleweeds were overtaken by a maroon blanket of clouds and the whipping winds of a summer thunderstorm in Kansas. Nickel-sized hale and winds that would capsize a semi forced us onto the first exit we came across. After sizing up our day's travels, we decided to stop for the night in Salina, KS, the geographic middle of the United States and the only town with a hotel for the next forty miles.

The next morning my Mom called from Ohio, waking us up with news that Salina, Kansas, our host for the night, was on every morning talk show because of tornado-like weather that caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in damage. We scooted, skipped the complimentary breakfast and decided we had seen enough of Kansas. When we got on the highway, though, an eerie, post-apocalyptic feeling set in: we were not just the only car on the highway, but lining the ditches for miles were abandoned semis that had been blown over by the winds the day before, literally felled by Mother Nature herself.

I'll never forget that drive, and when I saw an overturned semi at mile marker 68 along I-71, it brought it all back.

What is it about a terminally flat, boring-at-first-glance drive that strikes a chord? Hell if I know. Something, though, is humbling, humanizing and beautiful about it, and I'm glad to have seen it.

The WU

Although this is probably too late in the day to matter, we're playing Ultimate tonight at 8:00 p.m. at J.D. Williams Memorial Park-- or Denver park, if you're a townie.

We play every Tuesday at 8 and every Thursday at 6. Thursday, though, we play at Wilmington College, on the mall.

Come out!

Oh, the lapse in posting.

I feel like I should offer some pressing or worthwhile excuse for why I haven't posted in more than a month, but, truth be told, I haven't been doing much outside of work. You would think that having a lack of goings-on would result in more posting, more time to write, read, wax philosophical about whateverelse, but my life doesn't seem to compute that way. And so, a dearth in posting. Do forgive me.

Life in Wilmington has settled back into a routine of work throughout the week and weekends spent relaxing either here or in Columbus. My friends and I have started playing Ultimate Frisbee twice a week, and I've been playing tennis about that often with an old friend and neighbor. Some of the same friends and I have also been playing squash at the YMCA weekdays before work, which has been great. During the winter, squash quickly becomes my favorite sport, as tennis courts lie in wait under snow and the bike stays parked in the garage, eagerly awaiting the thaw. But it's good to be back in a regular routine. Since moving away from the best squash courts and rec facility in the state, I haven't played much. The Y squash courts haven't been touched since the 70s, and it shows. But I guess I shouldn't complain. As college employees, we get Y memberships for free, and squash in a cave is better than no squash at all.

Another big change: Summer has officially left and the weather here didn't waste any time in reminding us of it. The fall air makes for great fun out-of-doors, and I'm eager to backpack a few times before the long and cold winter sets in. Frankie and I are in the middle of planning a trip somewhere woodsy for mid November. We're leaning towards Red River Gorge in Kentucky, or Hocking Hills. Both are sufficiently woodsy, so we'll see.

The square-foot garden is almost spent for the season. It's been a bountiful small-plot, and after this final broccoli and cabbage harvest I plan on pulling out the tomatoes and peppers and planting a cover crop for the winter-- maybe buckwheat, or rye. In all, I consider my rookie garden a success. The mental notebook is scribbled with insight and changes for next year.

I guess, in retrospect, I have been busy, but none of the above translates into good blog stuffs. I'll work on changing that, as soon as I figure out how turn downtime into productivity.

So it goes.