California Crestline Lake Gregory Life Photography Shirley Buxton Photography

Is Fall My Favorite Season?


Jerry went ahead of me into the lodge where we would eat lunch. “Let me tromp around a bit with my camera. I’ll meet you inside in half hour or so,” I had said to him.

Beams of noonday sun danced among newly fallen leaves, fiery orange and yellow. Acorns and pine cones and wispy weeds with seed heads of harvest lay spread about, and I reflected again: autumn is my favorite season . . .but again there is majestic winter . . .the pulsing bud of spring . . .the languid sweet days of summer . . .

And you? What is your favorite season? Can you decide?


Pennsylvania Trip–Part 3 Rust and Pods

Well may you ask the connection between rust and pods, and further may you question the significance of a post about either of them. And I confess, I have no answer, except that something about each class intrigues me. What is it? The passage of time with its connection with our own lives? Durability? The charm of the flawed?

Near one of the stores where we shopped yesterday was an ancient gasoline pump. Broken. Rusted.  Beautiful. Its sides were pitted with decay.imageimage

In a clump beside the old pump was a stand of yellow flowers (black-eyed susans?) that with a flourish had shot up the side of the flawed metal.        .image

image   Its brand was legible.     imageNearby in the things of rust was a fence.imageChains and iron of decay.

Pods abound here on my brother’s property. I’m enchanted.image.imageimage

San Bernardino Mountains Shirley Buxton Photography

Mountain Prowling with Winston

On Thursday I went to the dentist twice! Broken tooth, crown problem! Bad news. $$$

Friday we had a couple of workmen scheduled to be at our home; one who could clean carpets, the other who would caulk around our large windows off the front deck.

“I think Winston and I will be gone,” I told Jerry. “We’ll prowl around the mountains, do a little leaf-chasing, shops . . . such as that.”

We did, and though I never forget, the day’s sights caused me to remember again how blessed I am to live in this stunning part of the world.

20141024-untitled (4 of 19)Lake Arrowhead seen from North Shore Road.

20141024-untitled (3 of 19)Over the blue water and the marina below the magnificent tree beside which I stood extended a slender limb laced with orange and yellow leaves.

20141024-untitled (5 of 19)20141024-untitled (7 of 19)Winston wore his red tie to celebrate as we made our rounds.

20141024-untitled (14 of 19)20141024-untitled (19 of 19)20141024-untitled (18 of 19)Ah. A couple of hours such as these make it easier to endure the painful, mundane, unwelcome parts of life. Clears our thinking, focuses our vision, eases the tremble of our hand and of our soul.

God made it. Spoke the word. There it stands.

Christianity/Religion Crestline God Photography Weather/Nature


A sense of proportion is essential if we are to maintain our wits in this Ferris Wheel, Alice in Wonderland, upside-down world where “topsy-tervyness” is such a standard that it wants to take on the color of normal, and wants to claim itself as the touchstone by which every action is measured. Those of us who are still hanging on to good sense must keep these dire developments in perspective, else we become so agitated that we serve no positive purpose.

A good way to do so is to step outside and notice that God does not appear to be in any kind of trouble! And since we have cast our lot with Him, that is a good thing–a very good thing. The sky that clears after a brutal storm is still that rare, clear blue; ducks still design their cool formation and soar about in the far reaches over our heads; the scent of cedar in the wet woods is as pungent as ever. Steep hills are still steep and the downslopes as welcome as ever. Fishers still think there are fish in the deep frigid water and that if they have the right sized hook and their bait is smelly enough, they might take home supper.

Last week our temperatures dropped so that the red line across our thermometer that hangs outside the kitchen window dipped into the 20s, then came rain and Jerry turned off the sprinklers, and we put away the cushions that pad the outdoor swings and chairs and we gathered in magazines off the tables. On Saturday, Jerry and I walked by the lake, and as I often do, so that people are probably sick of hearing me say it, I said again, “This is the most magnificent place. Can’t believe I live here.”

“Turn here, Jerry,” I said on our way home, and he did, and after a few twists and turns into a steep canyon, we found these.

Perspective? Sense of proportion? Easy to maintain as we gape at aged carriages and awkward repairs, and frayed tires and old boards that serve to show off a row of apples. Wasted apples lay on the ground, their red color a flare among the brown grass and leaves of autumn gold and brown and yellow. Some had rotted, for no one came to the harvest, but there was a kind of beauty there, for the decay is honest and the eternal promise of spring and more little apples and apple trees and limbs and a nest for the robins.

Robert Browning got it right long ago:

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!

“Is that rain again?” Jerry looked up from the newspaper.

It was evening now, the drapes were closed “Sounds like it,” I said and then pulled open the drapes and stepped to the front deck. “Snow! It’s snowing.” The snow sizzled. The wind blew. Normal. Right.