Black and White

There doesn't seem to be any good news on the horizon, despite the slight growth in the economy. Perhaps it has something to do with my location. Things in this area seem more depressed than elsewhere in the country.

So much of our local economy, for such a long time, has been dependent on the auto industry. When that industry suffers, and it surely has, everyone around here suffers along with it.

I'll never understand the arguments of those who said it was best to let the American auto companies die, rather than have the government (you and me, folks) help them through the tough financial times.

Can they possibly be so short-sighted not to see the ramifications of something like that? Failing to aid our largest manufacturing base would have created a depression so deep I shudder to think about it.

Have the naysayers missed the massive housing decline, and the steep fall in retail sales?  Do they really think those empty malls and shuttered plants have nothing at all to do with the mess our financial institutions caused with their greed?

Or am I being too cynical? After all, the pundits like to say (particularly when they're bashing my own misguided opinions) the world isn't just black and white. Even though our esteemed media, and most of our politicians, seem determined to separate everything that way.

It seems that way with the shot of the egret above, too (I know, that was a really terrible segue).

I took the shot late in the day ... after sunset, actually ... using a high ISO setting on the camera. Since it was handheld, I was extremely thankful for the anti-shake mechanics of the lens.

Even so, there's a lot of softness and grain and the result, trust me, looks much better in black and white. But I miss the color. The soft, warm glow that seemed to dissolve into the inky blue of the night sky.

I miss the nuances and color of regular life, too. They seem to get lost in the endless stream of conservative-liberal 'the world is either black or white' rhetoric we hear every day.

Isn't anyone else tired of it?  I miss the color.

Why Autumn Rules

My wife and I just spent two days touring the thumb area in Michigan's lower peninsula. We were honestly disappointed for most of the trip. The fall color we were anticipating just wasn't as ready as we were!

However, there was enough to make it a nice two days. This photograph, taken late in the afternoon, was one of the marvelous images we found. Looking at a shot like this reminds me why I love living here. In a matter of moments, a dull grey day can become a riot of color!

I couldn't help thinking about something I mentioned in my last post, that I can hardly wait to see what's on the road tomorrow.

For me, it's true. Every day is an adventure, and every day can contain something spectacular for each of us, if we are only wise enough to be looking for it.

It occurred to me this philosophy translates nicely to the work environment. Too bad I left the nine-to-five, because I've been learning more about using social networking, like this blog, as a marketing tool.

It's an area marketers, if they haven't done so already, are going to be quickly discovering. I'd like to think I can help them devise metrics to measure the success of such new tools, and see what's on their road tomorrow.

Of course, there are also plenty of times I just want to sit back and enjoy the sights.

Rochester Writers Conference

Unlike previous entries, this post is only partially about myself. I cannot even take credit for the photograph, since it was taken by my lovely wife.

I attended the Rochester Writers Conference today. An all-day affair, held at Rochester College in, you guessed it, Rochester, Michigan, it featured several speakers making presentations on the various aspects of the craft and business of writing. This was the second year for the event and my second time in attendance, so I'm batting a thousand.

I chose to visit four specific presentations: (1) Promote Your Writing by Building an Online Presence, by Lori A. May; (2) Re-Work, Re-Sell and Re-Print: Secrets to Recycling Your Writing in the Marketplace, by Cindy LaFerle; (3) Magazine Editors Panel, featuring Rebecca Stevens, and Becky Repp; and (4) Songwriting 101: Lyrics to Market by Bill Edwards.

All the sessions were extremely informative, and provided a marvelous opportunity to network with other writers in the area.

However, as terrific as the presentations were, the best part of the day, for me anyway, had to be the Keynote Address following lunch by author Chip St. Clair. An excellent speaker, he gave a riveting account of his new memoir The Butterfly Garden. It is a powerful story, not only of his life, but of hope in the face of unspeakable abuse and violence.

If you get a chance, read it. His message was well worth the day.

The Road

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

~ from "The Road Not Taken"
    by Robert Frost

I took this photo just the other day with my Canon 30-D dSLR. It was late in the afternoon in Bald Mountain State Park. There's not a lot of activity in the park this time of year, and the roads and trails, lakes and picnic tables are little used.

It was really too early in the year to see any fall color, and not late enough in the day to take advantage of the waning sun for the decent, warm light photographers want for their photographs ... except here.

The narrow road seemed almost enveloped by the park's underbrush and trees, and the late afternoon sun made it seem like this stretch was a long, dark tunnel coming out into the light.

I could not help being reminded of those last three lines of Frost's famous poem, one of my favorites. It often amazes me, where life has led to this point. The journey's certainly not been what I envisioned for myself at sixteen. But, as I look back on it, it hasn't been bad, either. It's actually been pretty good, and it's just ... well, it just is.

And I can hardly wait to see what's on the road tomorrow.

The Fence Post

I don't know what it is about this particular image that captivated me so much. I do know that I took several pictures of it, and this is the one I liked the best.

It wasn't too far from the picture of the field in the post just before this. Nothing spectacular about it. An overgrown field, full of soon-to-flower goldenrod (oh! my allergies!) and Queen Anne's Lace, surrounded by a lot of tall grasses and other weeds, with an old wooden fence post, accompanied by some metal posts for support.

Perhaps it was the tiny, solitary yellow flower in this sea of weeds (hard to see here ... it's just to the right of the old post ... click on the image to see a larger version). I know it sounds trite, but to me it's a telling image of diversity and life, thriving even without man's intervention. Or perhaps I'm seeing more than there really is to see.

That's the neat thing about cameras. This whole painting with light thing called photography ... it allows you to record the images you see that mean something to you, and share them. Kind of the whole rationale behind the social media explosion, which is a marketing venue that is just beginning to come into its own.

I know it may not be everyone's idea of an image worth sharing, but I liked it, and now I've shared it here.

Plowing as Art

I've been a little lax in posting lately. After my father passed away, taking pictures just didn't seem as relevant as it once did. The urge to create is coming back, but it's a slow process.

I came across this photograph, taken earlier this year when we were visiting my in-laws. My father-in-law is almost 93, and his tractor is older than a lot of folks I know, but he was willing to use it to plow a small area on his farm for his daughter (my wife), so a few things like corn and squash could be planted.

Nothing spectacular, just a small garden. Other than mowing, nothing much has been done with this particular portion of the field for years. This picture was taken just as he was getting started. He's really a remarkable man.

It reminded me of the irrepressible urge of humanity at all ages to create, on whatever level possible, and it got me thinking again about continuing to use my meager talents to do what I enjoy so much, creating interesting or thought-provoking images, or writing about the human condition.

I hope you don't mind.

Remembering ...

Eulogy
For a life well lived.   March 3, 1922 - July 7, 2009

(The photo above is one I took of Dad, in the back yard of his home, several years ago. It is one of my favorite shots of him).

I’m proud to say Vestel was my father. Many of you knew him simply as “Lee” – which is how he was known to all but close family, for most of his adult life. He was not overly fond of his given name “Vestel” – and, with apologies to my late grandparents, I can’t say that I blame him.

I want to thank all the kind people who have been providing so much help, especially to my Mother. A special thanks to Lisa for such a beautiful and heartfelt singing of the 23rd Psalm, and to Nalin for his playing of the Prelude in C to Für Elise today. I know Pop enjoyed it.

I also want to thank everyone who came to the funeral service. We often need help to say a last goodbye, because it’s awfully hard to do alone, and your presence here is greatly appreciated.

I want to stress, while this may be hard to do, it is really NOT a sad, sorrowful occasion, even though it may feel that way right now. In the final years of his life, Pop suffered many different health-related problems. He suffered in silence and seldom complained, because that was the kind of man he was. But his suffering has finally ended and he is at peace.

So, this isn’t a sad day - because we are here not to mourn his passing, but to celebrate his life. Dad’s not here, and I already miss him terribly, but I believe his spirit is with us, and he’s in a better place, a place where he sees and hears well again, where he can walk and run while he waits for us, and – best of all – he can even play a round of golf again, which I know was his version of Paradise.

Dad was part of a large family. He had eleven aunts and uncles, and there were six kids in his own immediate family, where he was the only boy. Poor guy! Five sisters! I thought it was bad having only one.

Dad grew up in Tennessee, in an area that even today is still largely rural. He learned the value of hard work – not necessarily because he wanted to – but because he didn’t have a choice.

When I was young, he would tell me about growing up without electricity or running water; about lighting the house with candles or kerosene lamps; heating it with a fireplace or a wood stove; milking cows before dawn and storing milk in a cave to keep it cool; or plowing fields behind a mule – and he often told me right after I had complained about mowing the lawn.

His stories sounded very much like something from the movies, except they weren’t stories for him, they were memories. His family was always a big part of his life.

In fact, he spent the last ten years tracing his family heritage in this country, generation by generation, back to 1770; and Mom’s, through her father, to 1736. He never said it in so many words, but I think he was proud to be a real American.

He was proud enough to serve as a Master Sergeant in the 100th Infantry Division in Europe, during WWII. He never spoke much about it, saying he saw things that were probably better left unseen and unsaid.

But I know from the history books that he was in some of the most brutal fighting in France and Germany during some very dark days. He was wounded serving his country and received the Bronze Star for valor!

Because of some lost paperwork, the Army took almost forty years to actually send him the medal. He had the ribbon, but the medal itself didn’t arrive until 2005!

In a way, I was glad it happened that way, because I might never have known about it otherwise. He was quite proud of it, and the way it arrived gave us all a chance to tell him we were quite proud of him, too.

But the most important thing about his war experience, certainly as far as my sister and I are concerned, is that he survived those awful war years and came home to meet our Mother.

Exactly how they met is not really clear. I’ve heard stories about a “chocolate pie box lunch” at a picnic social. He did say Mom wouldn’t let him walk her home that day, but that was another topic he never spoke much about.

I did ask him once why he didn’t insist on walking her home, and he said he couldn’t - she just ran off. When I asked why he didn’t chase her, he replied: “Didn’t you ever see a hillbilly girl run?”

I don’t know a whole lot more about their courtship, but I can surmise it was a pretty darn good pie, and that – at some point – she stopped running. They were married for over 63 years.

Dad moved us to Detroit when I was an infant, seeking a better life. He went to work in Chrysler's Hamtramck plant (later to be known as GM's Poletown). Growing up in his house, Dad always seemed larger than life. I don’t remember when it was that I first realized he was shorter than me.

He used to ask me if I remembered going to the doctor when I was very small, because they were concerned I was not eating enough. The doctor told him to leave me alone. There was nothing wrong. I would eat when I was hungry.

Even though I was far too young to remember the doctor visit, Dad told me about it so often it’s almost like a memory. And you just have to look at me now, to know the doctor was right.

I do remember walking home from a Saturday movie matinee one spring afternoon – I must have been about nine. It was only about a half mile away, but I was supposed to wait right outside the theater for Dad to return and pick me up.

Well, the movie got out a few minutes early and I waited for what seemed to me to be an unduly long time – about 30 seconds – before deciding to just walk home. After all, I was nine, and I knew where home was.

Dad showed up at the theater right on time, and waited for me to come out. When I didn’t, he went in looking for me. I was nowhere to be seen, and he had absolutely no way of knowing what happened. This was the 1950’s, long before cell phones, so he rushed home, frantic.

Now, because I was walking home while he searched the theater, I had arrived home before him. I still remember hearing his worried comments to my mother when he walked in, and then his one-syllable response to being told I was already home.

I never knew until that moment that a question could also be an exclamation. But it was a lesson I remember most because I realized how worried he had been, and how much he cared for me.

Dad taught me many important lessons. Lessons about family, commitment, and about right-and-wrong. One of the lessons that stood out for me, as I sat down to write this, was the time I broke Mrs. Murphy’s bedroom window playing baseball with other boys in the neighborhood.

As the ball crashed through her window, the meaningless phrase: “No dibs on windows” suddenly took on meaning, as every other kid in the yard quickly disappeared.

I was standing there all alone, amazed at how fast a yard full of screaming, yelling kids could become an empty, silent lot. I debated about slipping silently away myself but, instead, I went home and told Dad.

Believe me, there was nothing noble about it. I wanted to run away, too, and never say a word. But I knew it was not a matter of if he found out. He would find out, and I knew it would be far better for me if I owned up to it right away.

Dad walked me over to Mrs. Murphy’s house and made me tell her what I had done. I can still remember standing on her front steps, telling her I broke her window, surprised at myself for being there.

Then Dad told her I would pay for it myself, out of my own paper route and allowance money, and I was surprised even more.

But I had learned several things: (1) the need to be careful around someone else’s property; (2) there were always consequences to your actions; and (3) how to own up to my own mistakes, and make them right.

I also learned most of my friends were not likely to bail me out of a jam, but that’s another story and a different lesson.

I remember Dad taking me to a police auction, hoping to find me a bicycle he could afford. He bid a little on several neat-looking bikes, but always stopped bidding long before he could get one. I didn’t understand why.

Finally, near the end of the auction, they wheeled out this ugly, battered, rusty old red-and-black relic. It had been painted with house paint, had two flat tires and a broken chain.

I could feel Dad’s hand squeezing my shoulder and thought he was encouraging me. I was afraid I was not going to get a bike at all, so as soon as the bidding opened I shouted “12 dollars!” – to which they promptly shouted, “Sold!” It was a lot of money then, and I’m sure it was more than they ever expected for that piece of junk.

Years later, I learned $12.00 was nearly all the money Dad had in his pocket until payday, but he never said anything. He knew how much I wanted a bike – even that broken-down ugly one. So he just paid them and we walked home together beside that wobbly old bike, with its loose chain clanking.

Fast forward several years, and I clearly remember being sixteen, having my first driver’s license and somehow, I’m still not sure how, getting Dad’s permission to use his brand new car – a 1964 Plymouth Sport Fury – a “hot” car back then – to go to my sophomore class picnic.

It’s a long story in itself, but the gist of it is, I arrived at the park and was showing off in the gravel parking lot for my friends (and some forever-to-be-unknown cute girls in bathing suits).

I almost hit a tree and did manage to bend the tie-rod on a curb. The front wheels did a nice little toe-in because of it.

I got it to a nearby dealer, scraping major amounts of rubber off the outside of each front tire, and my friends and I spent the whole day back at Cass Lake trying to borrow enough money – from classmates and strangers – to get it fixed, so Dad would not have to find out.

Somehow we did and, despite what I learned in the baseball incident with Mrs. Murphy’s window, it took me almost twenty years to tell Dad about it.

I also remember the next summer having to tell Dad I “sort of bumped” another car on my first double-date with the pretty girl who would eventually become my wife. It was just the tiniest bit of a paint scratch, barely enough to see, but I was anticipating Mount Vesuvius erupting when I got home and told him - and I already knew I had to tell him.

Dad did, in fact, bolt out of the house with a flashlight and, though there was really nothing to see, he was out in the driveway for a long, long time. At that moment I was probably more worried that Mary Lu was home thinking I was a putz, but I was also very glad I had never yet mentioned the tie-rod incident from the summer before.

(For my own three sons, I know you’re now grown, but if there’s anything similar you ever wanted to tell me some day, but never have, later today would probably be a good time).

Dad was also forgiving toward my little sister. You’ll have to ask her for the specifics, but it revolves around ramming our Mother’s new car into a parked car, while reaching for a cheap guitar in the back seat.

As someone mentioned a moment ago, golf was Dad’s passion. He taught me how to play when I was about eleven, and some of my favorite times with him were on the golf course. He was always helpful and encouraging.

Whenever I hit a bad shot, he would tell me: “Don’t worry, it’s the next shot that counts.” But I finally had to tell him I knew he was only trying to help, but did he have to say that after every shot?

Most of all, growing up I remember my father being a strong example of hard work, honest behavior, love for family, and charitable friendship. I can honestly say, I was always proud of “my old man.”

For the last several years, Dad’s health was constantly slipping. Each new episode meant there were fewer things he could do. I honestly don’t think he would have lasted this long, if not for the devoted care Mom gave him.

But I think the worst of it all for him was when he was no longer able to play golf. He really loved that game, even rescheduling his dialysis when he was first forced to go on it, so it would not interfere with his golf league.

Yet, he seldom complained as he got weaker. When you asked him, he would always say he felt just fine - he just wished he could get his legs stronger so they would support him better.

And instead of worrying about himself, he was worried about Mom.

One of the best gifts he gave us was his love and devotion to Mom, and Mom to him. Such an example of true and selfless love is a great legacy for all his family.

I could go on for quite a while, because I’ve left out a lot, but I have just one more thing to mention.

Dad used to kid with his friends, neighbors, even his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, that he was just twenty-six. He was fond of saying things like “he had just passed the 61st anniversary of his 26th birthday.”

It only recently occurred to me what a compliment that really was to his family. He was twenty-six when “his” family began, first with me, and then my sister, and eventually seven grandchildren and nine great-grandchildren, whom he loved very much.

Saying he was “still 26” marked a moment that was obviously a special time in his life, and was really one more indication of his love for all of us.

I’m going to miss hearing him say that.

At some point as he aged, Pop ceased being larger-than-life and became merely life sized. But even at life size, he was still a giant of a man.

His every action said to his family “I love you” – and I will always be grateful I took the time to say, “I love you too, Dad.”

Never Give Up

My father died one week ago today. Someone – I don’t remember who – once told me of a quote they had read: “You’re not a man until your father dies.” At my father's funeral, I was thinking about that as I stood by his casket. I never felt so much like a child. Several times that first afternoon I cried profusely.

I wondered, as we drove to the church for the service on Saturday morning, who would be there. Another "someone" once told me if five good friends came to your funeral, it could be said you had a good life. As I looked around the church it seemed to me that Pop must have had a great life.

Several people spoke, including all three of my sons. Their comments were impromptu ... and magnificent. Their grandfather would have been so proud of them! I struggled to deliver his eulogy and, although several people said it was moving and nice, I still felt I had left something unsaid.

I was looking at this photograph I took last year, on the nearby Paint Creek Trail. The foliage was beginning to wear its autumn best that day. Dad would have liked it. He enjoyed the fall. It reminded him that Mother Nature was not going to go away quietly into the winter.

He was fond of saying things like "you never, ever give up." It's probably the attitude that helped him earn the Bronze Star for valor in WWII.

Then it occurred to me ... what I had neglected to mention in his eulogy. I have no intention of giving up, Pop ... ever. Thanks for reminding me.

Sad Days

The picture above is not one of mine. It was taken by my son, a professional photographer. He says he wishes he had done more with it, since it's one of the last images he had taken of his grandfather.

My father passed away Tuesday afternoon. He was 87. He had been in poor health for many years, so it didn't come as a great surprise ... but it still hurts. He was a gentle man, who left behind a legacy of love and support.

I know I'm going to miss him.

"Drowning" Edition Flip MinoHD

In my spare time, I also fool around with design elements and other photo-related things. I've managed to get quite a few started in an online store, including this interesting USB Flip high-definition video camera emblazoned with a unique, and slightly irreverant, photography-related design.

You've always wanted a video camera with an attitude, right?

The "Drowning" Edition Flip MinoHD holds 60 minutes of HD-quality video on an internal 4GB hard drive and sells for an economically stimulating $199.

To order yours, click on the headline.

Detail

Recent world events have made a lot of people stop wondering what's happening to the domestic auto companies as important events unfold, particularly in Iran, where a surprising interest in free, democratic elections has evidenced itself. It seems the whole world is hesitating and wondering about the details of the things developing. Interesting thing about detail. Once you capture someone's attention, you can seldom have too much.

The shot above has nothing to do with world events, but it is an exercise in detail. The stamen of this flower (please don't ask me what it is, I am hopeless when it comes to flower names) seem to writhe and gyrate, in this close focus. There is a striking amount of detail, but it is not really enough.

The focus is ever so soft, the product of a hand-held exposure. I knew I should have mounted the camera on a tripod, but opted not to. I said it was for expediency but, honestly, it was laziness. I just didn't make the short trip inside (the flower is in our backyard garden, and the tripod was upstairs).

So, what could have been a stunning image, is simply interesting. They say "the devil is in the detail." So is the perfection and, in some cases, freedom, we strive for.

Hopefully, lesson learned.

Comes the Dawn

I find it ironic that the national media hasn't focused so intensely on the domestic car manufacturers these past few days. The local media certainly is focusing on it, particularly around Detroit, which is the area hardest hit by what's happening.

But why the hiatus in the national media? Not enough scandal? Too little in the way of surprises? Not enough gloom-and-doom to make the headlines sizzle, and have all those advertisers pay dearly to be included for the ride?

Perhaps you think I'm a bit cynical. But those are the things media lives for, aren't they?

I'm old enough to remember when being a journalist was a good thing. Not that people who do that for a living today aren't good. It's the position that has lost some of its luster. Too many people these days regard TV journalists as "talking heads." Pretty faces, paid to read the teleprompter with whatever words the station owner wants them to read.

Not the nitty-gritty, go-out-and-find-the-news, dig-for-it, and report-it style that made the American press the sacrosanct beacon of freedom as we used to think of it.

Like the sun in the picture above, taken from the Renaissance Center in Detroit, looking out over the Detroit River toward Canada, the "news" used to be something we could count on to lift the fog on what was happening in our world.

Now the news is info-tainment, competing with the dozens (or is that hundreds?) of similar programming ideas on all channels, and scattered across the Internet. All of them fighting for the same dollars of ad revenue. All looking for the scandal, surprise, or disaster that will cause viewers to tune in, or click on, to them for enough moments to drive up their ratings, thus assuring that they get top dollar for those ad placements.

I'd like to say I thought all this as I looked at this picture tonight. In reality, I was just looking for a good photograph in my collection to talk about. Something that I could get into about exposure time and f-stop, or maybe the type of camera I was using.

Sad what comes to mind too often these days. Makes me wish I could get this cynicism out of my system, and just think about photography again for a while.

Find the Hidden Beauty

Beauty is everywhere. I know that's a cliche, but it's true. Just like this shot of red flowers (don't ask me what they are, I haven't got a clue). They were a solitary spot of vibrant color in a field of weeds.

I had to lie flat on the ground to get this perspective, soiling a very good shirt. I used a large aperture and fast shutter speed to throw the background out of focus, so they dominate the picture. I didn't want to see everything, just the pretty part.

I think that's an attitude that would serve most of us well, in these uncertain times. As GM, and the other domestic automakers, struggle to reinvent themselves in the wake of the disaster created by Wall Street, and the rest of us try to make sense of the recession caused by those under-regulated, greedy fools, it makes sense to stop and look around us.

There is still a lot in the world to be happy about. Taking care of family and friends in need, because we care. Taking care of strangers, for the same reason. Looking for the good in the world, and focusing on it.

Like those red flowers, it's always there. We just have to find it.

All in the Point of View

I've been remiss in taking pictures lately. I guess I have a lot of other things on my mind. Being retired ... early. GM going bankrupt (how will that affect my pension?). The economy.

However, all things considered, I've decided to quit worrying about it, and get on with my business. I've decided life, like the shot above, taken near the mouth of the Grand River in Grand Haven, Michigan, is completely dependent on your point of view.

As I started setting up for the shot, it was well after sundown. It seemed considerably darker out than the image you see now.

Most people looked at me as if I had grown an extra appendage when I took out my camera in that dark, set up my tripod on the boardwalk looking out at the lighthouse, and started taking pictures toward the mouth of the river, where it empties into Lake Michigan.

A couple walking by wanted to know if they would interfere with the shot. I told them no, and you can see their ghostly images on the boardwalk.

There were boats coming up the river, too. I imagine they were looking for familiar, safe moorings at which to spend the night. You can't see them in this time exposure (about 10 seconds), but you can see their running lights.

Just like a lot of things in life, I was not sure how this shot would turn out. Still, I went to a lot of trouble to set up for it and took it anyway, because I wanted to know what would happen.

The image is now one of my favorites. Which makes me realize, all over again, that life is for taking chances, learning from our mistakes, and exalting over our triumphs.

Life, the cliche tells us, goes on. And it's true. My pension will be whatever it is going to be. GM will become whatever it's destined to become. I will do whatever I need to do to survive.

In the end, things that matter won't change very much. I can still count on the love of my family. The world will turn. I will take still more pictures, and continue to experiment with them.

In fact, I think I will take the tripod out tomorrow night and set it up, just to see what I might see.

The Gears of Change

How sad to think that a manufacturing giant like GM has to be forced into bankruptcy to save itself. A lot of us have known, for some time, that "the old gray lady" was just too bloated and heavy, and needed to resize itself.

Makes me think the executives I used to work for may not have known any better than I did how to manage such a beast!

Like the photo above, which is the rusty drive gear and chain of an old manure spreader, the gears of our manufacturing behemoth must have become rusty and clogged with too much of "this is the way we always did it" and it was too difficult to hear the clamor for change coming from both inside and out.

Or maybe it was heard, and things just moved too slowly to be of any use.

Sad indeed. But I have no doubt GM will be back. Leaner, and poised to take on the future once more.

Now, if I can only shake the lethargy that has overcome me while waiting for the outcome of all this mess, maybe I can break out my cameras, both film and digital, and get back to the business of taking pictures, and going on with my life.

Sanctuary

Today is a critical day in determining whether Gen­eral Motors ulti­mately files for bankruptcy on Monday. GM bondholders must de­cide whether to ac­cept an offer to swap debt for a ten percent own­ership in the company.

It’s also the day UAW officials meet to hear more details about a new tentative labor contract. The union, being asked to exchange money owed for a retiree health care trust for a 39% ownership stake in GM instead, is expected to pass the deal. That's because there's a general consensus that the union is between the proverbial "rock and a hard place."

Despite that, many experts view Chapter 11 bankruptcy for GM as all but a certainty, saying they are doubtful bondholders will accept GM’s offer.

Which brings me around to the rest of us. Is the general public going to take anything away in the form of better, safer, fuel-efficient vehicles? Or when all is said and done, and fuel prices drop, are they going to clamor for large SUV's again, and wonder why no one provides them?

Are the financial institutions, who are the real instigators of all the economic mess, finally going to start releasing funds for loans again? Where is the economy going? Is it all really a huge conspiracy to deprive and suppress the middle class?

It gives me a royal headache to read the news anymore. I think I'll just grab my cameras, say a prayer or two, and look for some sanctuary of my own.