April 1, 2003

Branches Against the Sky

I think I may have mentioned recently (I'm too lazy to look it up) that my boss has given me a generous amount of pregnancy/birth related books. I'd said in passing to her that I wanted to get some in order to follow along with Lilly's pregnancy, and a few days later I had a whole pile of books waiting for me on my desk. So to thank her, I took her out to lunch today. We went to The Farm at South Mountain, a beautiful little place I'd just learned of a few weeks ago. It's out in the middle of nowhere (and I mean NOWHERE - no signs, no advertising, and surrounded by a rather questionable neighborhood). Isn't it funny that we can be mere moments from such places for *years*, and never know about them until we stumble upon them by accident (or until we're dragged there by wedding location hunting girlfriends)? I need to explore outside of my typical five-square-mile-radius once in a while. I've been missing out.

For a pleasant hour, we sat under the pecan trees and munched our organic lunches. The pigeons were so bold they actually landed on our table while we were eating, looking for handouts. Which they didn't need, since they're already so fat they're about to burst. Swear to God, one of the males had *neck rolls*. The restaurant is tiny and quaint and HUGELY popular at lunchtime. I find the place to be very soul-satisfying. It's good to know that there's greenery and homeyness and tall trees to take the bite out of my homesickness, 20 minutes away. It's even better to know that it's close to impossible to think about Corporate Nonsense while sipping lemonade and feeling the breeze lift my hair. Which explains why it's popular enough for all the suits and skirts who congregate there to leave their high faulutin' offices, park across the street in the dusty dirt lot, pick their way across the rocks of the drive, get their expensive haircuts and just *so* do's blown around by the breeze, and settle amongst the trees and pigeons.

As I sat there in the shade and enjoyed the atmosphere, I was struck with a familiar itch to take my camera out and make a futile attempt at catching the mood and spirit of the place. Once again, I had the opportunity to kick myself for not developing the habit of bringing my camera everywhere I go. What is it about shade and moving shadows and tiny streams and ferny dark places that strike that chord in me? I get this desire every now and then, and I know that no matter what I do or how well I wield the camera, the pictures will never quite pluck the moment out of time and capture it on a 4X6 glossy.

When I get in moods like that, nothing will do but a *real* 35mm film camera, with settings and f-stops and manual focus and things to screw up. It seems more tangible, that way. Perhaps because I know that I can't just delete the image with the push of a button; I have to take the time, choose the arrangement and setting, and breathe through the process. Perhaps its the anticipation of dropping the film off to be developed, and the renewed surprise at what was photographed. Perhaps it's the ability to physically hold the picture in my hand, the cool smooth surfaces, the rustle as I flip through them. Perhaps it's the high of crafting a really well turned out shot, and the low of mourning a shot that was missed. Perhaps it's the mechanical feel of the camera, the mechanism of the shutter, the click of the advancing film, the feeling that an event has taken place.

Which is a long-winded, roundabout way of saying, "Me like taking purty pictures."

At any rate. The Farm sports a very old pecan grove, which was planted by the original (and still standing!) owner. The leaves haven't emerged on the branches yet, which gives the place a haunted, brooding feel. There has always been something very appealing to me about the image of bare branches against the sky. I was reminded of that appeal sharply, so stark and scaly were the trees, tall and complicated against the typical Phoenician backdrop of squat mesquite and characterless cacti. Deciduous trees are few and far between, around here.

They have picture albums full of events they've hosted on the property, many of which contain shots of the trees fully be-leafed. The leaves utterly transform the place, and I'm sure that on my subsequent visits I shall long to run barefoot in the grass, lay beneath the trees, and watch the leaves move and flicker the sunlight along the shadows on the ground. Patrons can take their lunch wherever they please; I wonder if they'd take exception if I climbed one and perched on a branch while I ate my sandwich.

I must have been a wood-nymph in a former incarnation. I mourn the lack of trees in my current life - all trite phraseology aside - like an absent friend. It seems to be fundamentally wrong, somehow, that I no longer have one or two "favorite" trees right in my own back yard, as I did in my childhood. One favorite tree in which to climb, another favorite tree to lay beneath, a favorite tree from which to collect acorns and "helicopters" (maple seeds, which are shaped in such a way that when they're tossed into the air, they spiral to the ground reminiscent of a helicopter's rotating blades), a favorite tree to obtain firey fall leaves.

Humph. Seems like no matter what I start to write, it always comes back around to being homesick.

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©Laura Charon 2000 - 2003.