Author Archives: Jeff C

Stars, Stripes, Barns and Guitars

Over Christmas, I set a record (for this millenium, anyway) for my longest stretch staying in Vian: 9 days.  Among the amusements during my stay was a visit with Heath Wright (of Ricochet – previously discussed here and here).  I’ve known Heath since . . . well, since he could not play the guitar.  I often tell people (with a half-straight face) that Heath, Greg Cook and I “used to be in a little band together before they formed Ricochet.”  Granted, it was the Vian High School marching band, but my story is technically true.

I had volunteered to take some pictures that he could use for whatever it is cowboy rockstars use pictures for.  I told Heath I’d need to get started before sunrise to get the best lighting.  This took two attempts — on Wednesday I arrived dutifully at 6:55 a.m. and was greeted only by a locked door and a dark house with a deep-sleeping Heath allegedly inside.  I’m a good sport, so we tried again Thursday and things went much better.

I even brought along a voice-activated lightstand (“VALS”), who you may know better as “Joyce,” my mother.  She was a huge help juggling the flashes.  I’d borrowed my Mom’s 10’x15′ American flag (doesn’t every mother have one of these?) to use as a backdrop; we strapped it to the side of Heath’s barn, set up the lights and started snapping pictures.  I had to get the camera way down low for some of the more interesting angles, which left me wallowing in a fair amount of cow sh…manure.

For a free, novice, amateur middle-aged aspiring photographer, I thought these pictures turned out pretty well.  Heath’s a pretty decent model — maybe this was not, as they say, his first rodeo. Thanks to Heath and my Mom for their patience.

We took some pictures sans-flag, too.  Note the big W on the gate.  Heath’s house/land is a.k.a. the Rockin’ W Ranch.  This festive name has nothing to do with Heath’s chosen profession — it was his dad (Bill)’s cattle brand even before Heath got his first electric guitar.  I even got a few family pictues with Heath’s 9-yr-old son, Dustin, who is thinner, has more hair, and is better looking than his dad.

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Fat Chuck’s Revenge

Today was my first-ever mountain bike race.  I even bought a (one-day) racing license.  Ned Barnett made me do it; it gave him one more opportunity to demonstrate his biking superiority over me.  The race was called “Fat Chuck’s Revenge” — named after the toughest section of the course, which is an area called “Fat Chuck’s.”  But the rains this week made that section too muddy to ride.  Kudos to the rain gods for actually making the course a little easier.

Mountain bike racing lesson from today:  Slow but steady….means you’ll finish way near the back.

 

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The Phoenix Rises!

If I remember my mythologies correctly, the phoenix is a creature that rises triumphantly from the ashes of its predecessor.

Recall that my car recently (and spectacularly) burned to a crisp.  Ouch.  With insurance check in hand, I set out to find a replacement — generally looking for one of similar vintage, color, mileage, etc., because I had loved the old one and hoped to keep it forever.  Well, I’m back on the road.  Crazy part?  The replacement I found is the hotrod version (SL55), so I’ve got (pointlessly) 493 horsepower raring to go, which will really come in handy with my drag racing.  I guess I’ll name it Phoenix.  (Are cars supposed to have girl names like boats?  And is Phoenix a boy name or a girl name anyway?)

Tenacious D (G?)

My neice, Grace Parker, whose Fort GIbson Junior High basketball team never lost a game, recently made her debut with the high school varsity and JV teams.   They won both games, but her uncle’s indoor no-flash sports photography wasn’t very productive (Obviously, I need more-expensive lenses).  Here are a handful of shots, though.  Grace is the one with the blue headband.

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What’s Good for the Goose . . .

Just south of my hometown of Vian, Oklahoma, is Sequoyah Wildlife Refuge.  Each fall (and spring) the wheatfields of the refuge are swarmed by tens of thousands of wild geese, migrating toward friendlier climates.  My dad drove me through the Refuge while I was home for Thanksgiving.

There is a two-lane road through the middle of the Refuge.  On the west side, hunting (geese) is legal and popular; on the east side hunting is not allowed.  When you drive down that road, you can see thousands of geese on the east side — often just 40 yards or so from the road — but none on the west side.  Even the flight patterns of the huge swarms that come in and out carefully stay on the safe side.  Like me, the geese are not as dumb as they look.

The www.stevecreek.com website (a photographer from the area) often has pictures (better than mine!) from the Refuge.

 
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