Monica posted on January 19, 2009 16:13 :: 3677 Views
I’m sure we made a silly sight.
There was my dog Shiloh, tethered just outside the back door, barking and jumping toward me with eager excitement. And there I stood in the yard, one arm brought up close to my face, the hand at the end of my other arm holding a camera that was focused within inches of my sleeve.
Shiloh’s antics were incidental. She’d been let out to do her business, and since I was out there and in close proximity, she wanted to play. I was ignoring her, though, because I was shooting snowflakes.
Big, soft, fluffy flakes had been falling for an hour or so, and I’d been watching them from inside the house. They almost made me sleepy with their soft drift to earth; and the lack of wind meant none of that frenetic, erratic sweep our snowfalls often have.
I had to run a quick errand next door, and on the way back, I glanced down at my coat. Tiny little flakes, each one unique and perfect, were scattered across the surface like a jeweler’s diamond toss. It was only 8 degrees so they were in no hurry to melt, unless I leaned too close and killed them with my breath.
Whenever I take the time to look at snowflakes, I’m tempted to just sit and stare, tracing every little corner and curve, memorizing each intricate shape, marveling at God’s largesse. Snow could have been really boring, but he made it beautiful. (Unless, I suppose, you’re looking at it from the end of a shovel.)
I wasn’t, however, so I hurried into the house, grabbed my little Canon with the amazing digital macro, put Shiloh on her chain, and prepared to capture these little works of art. It was a challenge, especially since I needed to work the camera with one hand.
The bigger challenge was in not shooting the battery dry. Each time I clicked, another fat ball of fluffy crystals slid across my sleeve, breaking apart and scattering individual flakes helter skelter. Each one seemed better than the first; just about the time I was ready to stop, another batch came skidding under my viewfinder. It was as if they were vying for attention, hoping to be chosen for some snowflake pinup poster.
They say no two are alike. I’m not sure how you prove that. Has anyone actually catalogued enough flakes to know for sure? I choose to accept that it’s true, that nature has enough imagination to give snowflakes as many different faces as people have. I know that no two that fell under my lens that day were exactly alike.
So there I stood, arm up, camera poised, clicking and clicking and clicking again. I know cars drove by because I vaguely heard them. I know Shiloh was still bouncing and barking because one small part of my brain was noting it with irritation. I also know that snowflakes make no noise, but their crashes onto my coat sleeve seemed to pierce the winter silence.
It was my fingers that finally broke the spell. My glove was off and the sting and pinch of 8-degree temps, the near paralysis from slowly freezing digits, finally grabbed my attention. Reluctantly I turned the power off the camera, slipped my glove back on—tucking my fingers into the warmth of the palm of my hand—and turned to look at Shiloh, still bouncing.
Crazy dog. I bent down, unhooked the chain, and watched her tear off through the yard drifts, sending my snowflakes tumbling end over end in clouds of white excitement.
Not all of them, though. Some of them rested safe and secure in my camera’s memory card, memorized through technology.
BY MONICA ISLEY
Monica Isley is a former newspaper reporter/columnist/photographer who once stalked the Lake Superior shoreline in northeastern Minnesota, camera in hand. She now lives in Sturgeon Bay, Wis., where the summers are warmer and the winters are milder than she's used to, but where photographic prey is just as available. Besides this column for JustNorth, she writes a blog called Monica's Pen at http://monicaspen.wordpress.com/
Article Source:
http://justnorth.com/Articles/tabid/105/articleType/AuthorView/authorID/924/lablover47.aspx