Chicagoist_Around_Town_12-27-2010

Chicagoist_Around_Town_12-27-2010, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Fresh Hot Coffee (the Zooey Deschanel barista)

Fresh Hot Coffee (the Zooey Deschanel barista), originally uploaded by danfogel.

Nothing beats coffee made one cup at a time.

Late July Flowers

Late July Flowers, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Checking out the camera capabilities of the iPhone.

Base Hit

Base Hit, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Watching the Parade Roll By

Watching the Parade Roll By, originally uploaded by danfogel.

At the annual Winnetka 4th of July Parade. I felt like this photo captured the viewpoint of the watchers on the street. Maybe I can get on a float next year for a different perspective.

Sun Catcher

Sun Catcher, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Fuschia (35/2 Test)

Fuschia (35/2 Test), originally uploaded by danfogel.

Got an Olympus 35mm, f/2. Works nicely on the digital SLR. Looking foward to some film shots too.

Good Morning Flowers

Good Morning Flowers, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Sun Splashed Wells Street

Sun Splashed Wells Street, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Violet 8 Weeks

Violet 8 Weeks, originally uploaded by danfogel.

The new pup.

End of Season Huddle

End of Season Huddle, originally uploaded by danfogel.

All Things Must Pass

"It's not always going be be this gray." George Harrison, "All Things Must Pass" (1970).

A week ago we had to say good-bye to our dear 14 year-old dog Floyd. She was a great dog, a great companion and so intertwined in my everyday life. She hadn't been well for weeks and I found myself holding her especially close every chance I got. We managed a couple long-ish walks even as she struggled to keep her back legs moving forward. Each minute spent with her took on its own meaning and burned indelibly into my memory. But now, she is gone.

Since then I began to think about the last couple years of Floyd's life and, more broadly, about death and memory and life. This time last year, Floyd at 13 was still chasing tennis balls in the backyard and then panting in the grass. She would lay there, lapping some watering and ripping the cover off the ball. A dog's life. A happy moment. I can close my eyes and see her, pink collar shining in the sun, spitting pieces of tennis ball and every so often looking up and into my eyes. She was a retriever, obsessively so.

And then May 2009 (last year) came, and Floyd chased her last ball. She had arthritis and she just decided the pain of running outweighed the pleasure of chasing a ball. Oddly, she never even picked up a ball again. Once she was done, she was done. But, she wasn't gone. Not by a long shot. She was still a vibrant member of our family for another ten months. Always there. Begging at the table. Sleeping in the sun. Sleeping near the piano in the morning and then, inexplicably, heading upstairs at mid- to late morning to sleep some more.

Thinking about Floyd as I drove into work today, listening to George Harrison, got me thinking that we all die a little bit every day. At the end, we do, of course, really die, but what ends is the ability to make new memories. With kids, you see this almost daily as they grow. With my middle son (now 9 and a half), I used to joke on his birthday that 3 year old or 5 year old Sammy was leaving and that 4 or 6 year old Sammy was coming. Sammy got into the fun at some point and would pretend to receive phone calls from the incoming Sammy as if he were a different person.

The thing is, the new Sammy, the post-fetching Floyd, or my best friend Paul (who died last September 5) are all different from who they were. The memories of the prior time, be they in mind, photo or some other recording are all that remains of those prior moments.

So that's just it -- we all die a little bit every single day. When I look at a picture of myself from 30 years ago, I can remember the moment, but the moment is frozen in time and, for all practical purposes, the me in the photo died that day or some time soon thereafter. We carry the memories with us, but how is a memory of, for instance, my tenth birthday party, or my first two wheeled bike ride as a 5 year old any different from my memory of my grandfather who died when I was 8 years old? It is, but it's really not. All those people are gone. Only the memories remain.

A couple more stories and then I will try to make my bigger point, the point George Harrison eloquently made in 1970.

Last September (2009), I flew to New York for the day to say good-bye to my best friend, Paul. He valiantly fought cancer for four years and the end was clearly imminent. We sat together in his bedroom. He was upright in a recliner, pained, but clear voiced and we did what we had done so many times before -- we laughed about the early memories that formed our friendship. As we sat, and he talked a bit about being ready (maybe that's the wrong word) to die, I asked him if I could tell him the story of the day/night my father died. That memory is vivid, even today, and I wanted to share it with him. He squeezed my hand and said it was OK to tell the story.

I rambled through the details of a day spent with a high fever, chills and doctor visits (all mine), followed by an extended, annoying pharmacy visit. The capper to that day was finally crawling into bed, wearing sweats, a hat, gloves and thick socks after jamming pills down my throat and then, just as I settled into bed, my wife came running with the phone to tell me my mom was calling and pretty sure my dad had died. Paul quieted me a bit with a wave -- I get so animated when I tell that story -- and then I caught myself. I looked in his eyes and my telling the story became part of the mosaic, a part of the memory, of the last time I saw Paul.

When my father died in January 2008, I gave a eulogy in which I talked about the last time I saw him. (http://thingsfogel.blogspot.com/2008/01/sam-fogel-1926-2008.html). The memory of that day, directly from the eulogy:

"The last time I saw my dad was about a month ago. My 7 year old son Sammy and I came in and spent a very busy day with my dad. We went out to lunch; we tried a new coffee place and later went out for dinner, a movie and ice cream. He was so upbeat that day and was having so much fun. The whole time I kept looking back and forth between my dad and my son and I just felt that it would turn out to be what it was – the last time I saw him."

If I can, I want to try now to get to the point of all this with a question: how is a memory of my father's death, my beloved dog dying or a record George Harrison recorded in 1970 any different from a snow storm last week, a friend who moved across country, or the best meal I ever ate, or the chef who prepared it? Temporally, these are all memories, snapshots of moments in time that came and are now gone. As I see it, we all die a little bit every day. As George sang, "the sunrise doesn't last all day."

All things must pass.

In Transit

In Transit, originally uploaded by danfogel.

This shot highlights the reason I can't get rid of my XA. It is pocket tiny and it has the quietest shutter of any camera I own.

Miss Floyd

Miss Floyd, originally uploaded by danfogel.

10 February 2010, Floyd Elizabeth is 14 years old.

Umbrella vs Snow

Umbrella vs Snow, originally uploaded by danfogel.

The Chicago Area picked up 12 inches of snow. This shot was during the morning. The snow really picked up later in the day.

Camera: Olympus Trip 35
Film: Fomapan Action 400
Processing: R09, 1:50, 20C, 11 minutes

Morning Light

Morning Light, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Recently picked up an Olympus OM-2n. This camera was made in the 1980's. I always thought about getting one as I collected images with my OM-1n (purchased in 1979). This was one of the first shots I took with my new (old) camera. The light was so amazing that morning, that I couldn't resist.

To view LA

To view LA, originally uploaded by danfogel.

On a family vacation to LA, I tried to find a fresh perspective at the Griffith Observatory and I have a love of the coin op telescopes. I love this photo and the little raindrops on the telescope.

Camera: Olympus Trip 35

Along the Chicago River

Along the Chicago River, originally uploaded by danfogel.

An "accidental" photo. I was asked to speak to a group about where the housing market was going in 2009. After that was over, I was waiting for the valet to bring my car from the Marina City parking garage. I slipped my Trip 35 out of my bag and quickly snapped this photo.

Sometimes It Really Hurts to Run a Marathon

Sometimes It Really Hurts to Run a Marathon, originally uploaded by danfogel.

I worked as a volunteer at the Chicago Marathon between Miles 25 and 26. This is the point in the marathon when, for many runners, the race is all about hanging on. This runner struggled. The woman helped him along and then, he started running again and then finished in a speedy 2:47.

Keith in the Kitchen

Keith in the Kitchen, originally uploaded by danfogel.

This is my good friend Keith, in his kitchen in Ossining, NY. I stayed with him when our good friend Paul died (just days earlier).

I shot this with my 1979 Olympus OM-1n (purchased in 1979), using an Olympus Zuiko 35mm, f/2.8 lens.

Film used: Fomapan 400

Processing: HC110, dilution H

These Are The Days

These Are The Days, originally uploaded by danfogel.

Maybe my year was all about the Trip 35 and Tri-x and I don't realize it. This captured a moment at my daughter's Girl Scout picnic near the Lake Michigan beach in Wilmette, IL.

Film used: Tri-x

Processed in HC110, Dilution H

Off Season

Off Season, originally uploaded by danfogel.

I took this photo with an Olympus Trip 35, a camera sold in the 1960's and 1970's. On Flickr, I tried several times to get a photo in the Night Trip group, a curated group for photos taken after dark with the Trip 35. I believe that with this photo I got just what I was looking for.

I used Tri-X and processed this myself in HC110, Dilution H.

Breakfast and the Sports Page

Breakfast and the Sports Page, originally uploaded by danfogel.

I really like this photo. I want to do more "environmental" portraits, that is, people doing what they do rather than posing for a photo like a snap shot. This photo also marked my growing comfort level and even love of Fomapan 400.