Hammer and Sickle

Sea of Okhotsk, Russia  2014

It’s so “Commie,” this scythe I found leaning up against a ramshackle shack in Fedora Bay in the Sea of Okhotsk. Raised against a darkening sky, I kinda felt like I could start a revolution against an evil tyrannical tsar who lived grandly off the broken backs of dirt-poor peasants and waif-like children.

Then, Russian Ranger Rostislav, one of the guys who winters over in this forgotten land, explained they needed this razor-sharp tool to cut a path from one tiny hut to another.

Well, OK. But for that one heartbeat I just knew I could incite hordes of unwashed masses to rise up and throw off the ermine cloak of dictatorship. Then Rosti showed me how to cut weeds with the damned thing.

Fallen Hero

San Juan, Puerto Rico  2012

It was there for the taking.

A garage door painted with the likeness of a faded sports hero, no longer noticed by the people of the neighborhood as they went about their daily business. But it spoke eloquently to a single vestige of the national identity that Puerto Ricans nurture to keep themselves slightly separated from their Big Brother to the north.

Pious Hands

Trujillo, Peru  2009

There were hundreds of them. Priests and monks, nuns and the humble faithful, all gathered to celebrate something in the Catedral de Trujillo. But what?

I wormed my way into a good vantage point, smiling and inching forward, remembering that I was a mere observer, the others there for a real reason. For the next two hours we bowed and prayed, struggled and sang in ragged Spanish to discover we had stumbled into a ceremony for Peruvian cardinals. And I swear, they played Simon and Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence.”

Roping Charlie

Cambria, California  2013

Kid-sized lariat in hand, Bradon practiced for months lassoing some fake iron steer horns. Then, suddenly, faster than he could say “Hi Ho Silver,” right before him appeared the first live target that was just his size. Finally, he had his eye on the prize, and that prize was a mutt named Charlie.

Rainbow Chairs

Bar Harbor, Maine 2012

I was told the original Adirondack chairs date back to 1903 and were available only in green or a darkish brown. Well that was then and this, honey, is now.

In Bar Harbor, evidently, there are no rules. Jello yellow, grumpy green, Fanta orange and Paul Newman blue. That’s what I discovered one early morning when I strolled along the Shore Path with locals walking their chocolate Labs and groomed Wheaten Terriers.

I knew I wasn’t in Kansas.

Saturday Night Fever

Priest Valley, California  2012

“Stop! Turn around,” I screamed to Geoff. “What was that? Is that what I think it is … a rugged old oak draped with a rainbow of panties and bras?”

“No, I want to get home,” he whined.

I said, “OK, just stop and I’ll walk back … this is too good to miss.”

And too-good-to-miss it was. Like the ribbons on a five-star general’s chest, this towering tree was a makeshift temple to young love, or lust as the case may be. Right in Steinbeck country, east of King City, this shrine to Saturday night fever was festooned with not only Victoria’s Secret but a whole host of other secrets, as well.

I’m imagining names like Tanya and Junior. And the bras even had the girls’ names and the date of their date written on them in indelible marker so a winter’s rain could never erase the testimony to their summer love.

Tears on the Hill

Northwest Passage, Canada  2012

Hobbled by a stupid cast on my left foot, I managed to snag a lift aboard a muddied ATV to head out beyond the footpaths my more able-bodied friends explored. My reward was a chilly downpour, a drenched Nikon tucked inside my fleece vest, and a windswept cemetery far from the outskirts of “town.”

The people of Canada’s Northwest Passage are hearty folks, in life as well as in death, as this splash of color testifies. Not bound by the drab landscape, months of grey drizzle and wet wind, their final resting place is a color wheel of artificial flowers stuffed into the clutching grip of smooth rocks standing tall against even the strongest gales. This image and the sound of that pelting rain will live long in my memory, longer than my now rusted-out Nikon unfortunately.

Spinning Sisters

Rome, Italy  2010

Alessandra announced to the world she could fly. Yes. After falling asleep night after night as the tale of Peter Pan eased her into slumber she felt her body lift from her bed and fly to the heavens. Peter and Wendy could fly, too, even Tinkerbelle.

All Alessandra needed now was a magic parasol. One for Giovanna, as well. Then on that warm summer’s day, near Rome’s Spanish Steps, someone magically sprinkled fairy dust on the two sisters and they took flight, as they knew they could, lost in a swirl of fantasy and color.