Archive for January, 2009

quiet mornings in winter

My father took a lot of photos in the late 50s/early 60s, black and white studies of landscapes and our living spaces. He was an artist, and had a Nikon camera that he took everywhere. Somehow he was able to capture moods and light and memories with a deft visual touch. He taught at the University of Utah and was continually evaluating the visual and spatial right-ness of things, especially our home. I refer to our “living spaces” because every aspect of the house and yard, each room and wall and the views from the windows, all had a harmony that he designed and built, then captured with photos. His living space was his canvas.

copyright 2009 Cedar Tree Studio LLCThis picture evokes a basic, early memory for me. We lived in a small frame house in Emigration Canyon for a few years, and it was the place I loved as I became aware of the world. This home, set on a wooded lot with a stream running and at the base of a mountain, was my Eden.

In winter, I loved to sit inside and just look out at the snow, birds searching for food, chipmunks venturing out rarely, the icy stream. The footbridge in this view crossed over the stream, a trivial little thing except in spring when runoff brought the water levels up. But to a small child it was a play area that was endlessly interesting. It was a boundary in our child’s world, a little bit of the outside flowing through our lives.

Every winter I still look forward to days when I can sit inside, wrapped in a blanket, and watch snow fall. It’s rare that I find the complete feeling of peace that was found in my canyon home, but this was the ideal I always hope for, even now. Especially now.


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hello world

I’m a child of the late 50s. A confusing time, a hopeful time, a frightening time. All too often we could just say that we didn’t know any better.


My Grampa used to keep an ice cooler and a wooden crate with a few dozen 8 oz. bottles of Coca Cola in the trunk of his yacht-like Impala. He loved to fish out a bottle and share it with the grandkids. “Oh, it’s just enough to wet their whistle…” he’d say when Grammee would protest.

But I don’t think it did anything for my personality.

(Sadly, this is a faked ad. I laughed so hard when I first read it, I nearly wet myself.)

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