On May 12 of this year, I’ll have completed 70 trips around the sun.
But it only seems like…?
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions because I can’t keep them.
I probably could if I took them seriously. But at my age, taking things seriously—like a New Year’s resolution—has gotten a lot harder to do, and I think I know why.
As you age, your outlook on life changes. You begin to realize you’re not going to live forever, and you can’t take anything with you when you leave. Those two hard facts are the only things I take seriously.
Seriously though…
My family, friends, neighbors, acquaintances, and my photography—along with my recent return to vinyl records and tape listening—are things I place great value on. But I can’t take any of them with me either when I check out.
When the credits play, remember that they were written by me.
It’s been a dream of ours for years to head west and finally experience some of our country’s most breathtaking national treasures. We had planned to make the trip back in 2020, but like so many others, our travel plans were put on hold when Covid-19 changed the world.
This time, the adventure begins in Cleveland, where we’ll see Alison Krauss in concert. Her music feels like the perfect soundtrack to set the tone for wide skies, mountain air, and days on the road ahead.
From there, we’ll drive west for a couple of days until reaching our first destination: Badlands National Park. I’ve always been fascinated by its otherworldly landscapes—jagged peaks, layered rock, and endless horizons that seem designed for a camera lens.
Next, we’ll journey on to three more iconic parks: Yellowstone, Grand Teton, and Glacier National Parks. Each holds its own promise: the geothermal wonders and wildlife of Yellowstone, the sharp, rugged beauty of the Tetons, and Glacier’s towering peaks and pristine alpine lakes
As a photographer, I couldn’t be more excited. I’m sure I’ll come home with plenty of photos—some that immediately carry vision and others that will need time to reveal their meaning. Those quieter images will wait with me through the long, cold Northeast winter, offering me the chance to reflect and discover the vision I might have missed in the moment.
Before “open mic night” was the thing where you nervously clutch a guitar (or your courage) while waiting for your name to be called, it was just a microphone in a coffeehouse, open to whoever dared step up. The tradition grew out of the 1950s–60s folk revival — places like Greenwich Village’s Café Wha? and The Gaslight Café, where singer-songwriters could play a couple songs, pass the hat, and maybe get noticed. By the 1970s, comedy clubs borrowed the idea, giving stand-up hopefuls a shot in front of real, often merciless, audiences. Fast-forward to today, and open mics have sprawled into every kind of venue imaginable — bars, bookstores, breweries, even Zoom rooms — still serving up that same unpredictable mix of brilliance, awkwardness, and “what just happened?” that keeps both performers and audiences coming back.
And here’s where my love/hate thing kicks in. On the love side, there’s nothing quite like the adrenaline rush of playing to a room full of strangers who are actually listening. You can feel the collective heartbeat of the crowd, even if it’s only twelve people sipping lattes or nursing craft beers. There’s the thrill of meeting other performers — swapping stories, guitar picks, or mutual encouragement in the corner while someone on stage is absolutely nailing it.
But then… there’s the hate side. The sound guy disappears mid-song. The guy ahead of you does a 12-minute free-form harmonica solo. The crowd thins to just the bartender and your cousin by the time you finally get called. And let’s not forget the mic that smells faintly of beer breath and mystery.
Still, for all the unpredictability — the good, the bad, and the baffling — those nights left their mark. Somewhere between the awkward silences and the magic moments, I learned that open mics aren’t just about performing. They’re about belonging to this oddball little tribe of people who can’t help but put themselves out there, one shaky song or risky joke at a time.
So maybe that’s why, even though I don’t go to open mic nights anymore, I still think about them. They were messy, unpredictable, and occasionally ego-bruising, but they were also where the sparks happened. Where I learned to roll with a dead mic, win over a distracted crowd, and sometimes, just sometimes, surprise myself. Love them or hate them, open mics are a reminder that art isn’t meant to stay safe at home; it’s meant to be shared, out loud, in all its imperfect glory.
Camera and chords; two different subjects but one love for both. That’s my dilemma (it’s not really).
I’ve been strummin a six-string guitar for over 50 years. My time pressin the shutter on a camera started around 20 years ago. I never thought photography would overtake my love of playin acoustic guitar.
I wish I could say that I’ve played guitar in bands for most of those 50 years but I can’t. I’d guess 10 years, give or take, is about all the time I spent playin in bands. I still wonder where I’d be if, IF I had somehow managed to make a career of it. Not so much as a rock star, just a guitarist playin gigs, and earning enough for survival. And maybe, just maybe havin a chance to play with a national act once or twice.
I also wonder what a career as a photographer might’ve brought. A chance to meet Ansel Adams or Diane Arbus? Perhaps. I’ve made a few dollars shootin a weddin or three and a few senior photo sessions for friends have been profitable. I made a weak attempt at startin a photography business but was immediately discouraged by the amount of time and effort required for self-promotion and gave up.
So, I guess you could say I did what the average(?) American white male does – they either get a job right out of high school (I’m a Baby Boomer by the way), or they quit school and join the Navy. I missed the proverbial bus that might’ve carried me to a career in music or photography.
In retirement now I spend time enjoyin both. They’re much loved hobbies, and every so often, I’ll make a few dollars at a gig or from a print. And that’s fine with me because I think doin what you love in retirement is just as enjoyable as the career might have been.
That’s my dad on the left holdin the guitar, not sure of the year but lets just say it was a long time ago.That’s me on the left, playin djembe with a couple of close friends.Self-portrait, 2019, Winter.
How many times have you either said that to someone, or been told that by someone? I bet more than once for each. Probably more times during your childhood. But as I’ve aged, that question has been randomly coming to mind.
Many years ago my older brother asked me this existential question: if I could choose to die first so that I wouldn’t be here for all the mourning, or be second and feel the grief and suffering of my wife passing instead of her feeling that pain for me if I died first, would I choose to go first or second?
Yes, that might seem to be a rather morbid question to ask, and I don’t remember (many years ago in this instance was probably 40+ or more) what my brother and I were discussing before he asked but it’s one of those hypotheticals that when you chew on it for a while really starts to have merit.
There are those who face death bravely, not fearing what may or may not lie on the other side. They may not even know if there is another side. And there are many who may not have had the chance to look death in the eye before passing. And some know their end is near and joyfully accept it, expecting and knowing of a wondrous afterlife.
I’ve been by myself at home for five days while my wife is away with our daughter. A destination wedding seems to be popular these days. During this time alone I’ve been thinking about my upcoming 69th trip around the sun. I’ve also had the “you go first or second” question pop up a time or two. I try to answer it, and tell myself there’s really no right or wrong answer.
Going first seems to be a more selfless answer, knowing that my wife would get to enjoy a longer life. Heading that way second seems like a selfish decision. What about going first together? That’s another existential question that deserves merit I think.
I suppose there are many different ways one can handle it, positive and negative. It may need to be measured in some form or fashion before you can choose how to deal with it. Life here on Pale Blue Dot is so full of them that it becomes second nature to either accept them and move on, or ignore them and move on. Either method can be both subjective and objective at the same time.
It’s disappointing to not be chosen for a position on the high school basketball or football team. Especially if you think you’re good enough. You wonder why it wasn’t noticed at tryouts. You watched and learned many different moves and strategies for the game, you’ve practiced and played with friends at the local park during summer. They all seemed to think you were quite good.
I wasn’t chose, but that has no effect on those that were. They might be thinking it was best for the team that I wasn’t picked. They might’ve noticed my method of handling the ball looked a little awkward, or I was just a little too slow running the 50-yard dash. Their views and opinions are completely objective to me, my opinion of myself is what should matter for being picked, right?
Perhaps. If you show that you are okay upon discovering that you weren’t picked, if you can come to grips with what is probably better for the team, if you can tell yourself “next time.” And keep believing that there will be a next time.
Life is full of choices, and I understand that sometimes not being chosen is best for the team. But handling the disappointment within is not a team effort, you are the only one that can take care of that. Just know that there’s always a next time.
Framing the Sound 