Why the moon looked red during the eclipse

Last night’s lunar eclipse was stunning, and caught me totally by surprise.

Not that I didn’t know the rare event was happening. It’s just that I assumed it would be covered by the clouds that threatened and stormed all day. But as I got ready to slip between the covers, I thought I’d peek outside one last time to see if I could see the moon.

See it I did! By the time the eclipse was beginning, at about 11:15 p.m., scattered clouds scooted mostly out of view, so I stepped outside in my bathrobe and slippers and peeked heavenward.

Yikes! The full, white orb was directly overhead in my Sacramento neighborhood, covered three-quarters of the way with a rather brilliant reddish-orange overlay (a Photoshop term seems best in this case).

I dashed back inside to grab a camera, fit my longest lens, scrounge for a CF card, and ran back outside. My first few guesses at the exposure were off.

Evidently, the Sunny 16 rule works for a regular full moon, but not an eclipse. Hand-holding and bracing on the mailbox were not going to give me the stability I needed, either.

Back into the house I ran for a tripod. In the meantime, unfortunately, the eclipse progressed to fully cover the moon. But I did manage to get some steady shots of a fully darkened moon.

Upon later inspection, the rusty-brown surface looked quite like a basketball, minus the seams. It was an awesome sight.

I wondered what made the moon appear reddish-brown during the eclipse. According to one explanation by EarthSky, an organization that makes such scientific mysteries accessible to laypersons like me, the color of the moon is from light refracting off dust and clouds in Earth’s atmosphere. Were there no atmosphere, the moon would be totally black as you might expect.

I know a lot has been made of the fact that this total eclipse occurred on the date of the winter solstice, which evidently hasn’t happened since 1638.

Although I don’t believe the coincidence has any particular significance, it is easy to see how early civilizations might have freaked out when they saw the great night luminary turn red, like blood.

For those who missed this complete lunar eclipse, you can catch the show again in 2132. So you should have plenty of time to get your camera settings ready!

I'm a Social Media misfit

OK, I admit it. I'm guilty.

And I'm feeling it.

I've convinced myself of the importance of blogging and sending e-mails and Facebooking and Tweeting ... and then I rarely do it.

Alas, I'm doomed.

Or, am I?

Lately I've been getting a newsletter about simplifying life, slowing down and taking time to enjoy the simple things--called, appropriately enough, Rowdy Kittens. Now, doesn't that just make your smile? How can you get irritated at a kitten?

So I've been reexamining the guilt-trip I've had to keep up with all the So-Mo-Joneses out there (that's social media Joneses). Is hourly Tweeting, daily Facebooking, twice-weekly blogging and monthly e-mailing really necessary to build my client base?

Truth be told, it probably is. I realize that. And I'm gonna try.

I'm just not going to stress out about it. Life is short. If you don't take the time to look around once in a while, you might miss something (Ferris said).

So enjoy today. It's mid-November, the leaves are turning beautiful shades of scarlet and gold, and the sky is blue. And don't forget to tell me (comment below) what you did to make this day special.

When you know it's love...

Create your own video slideshow at animoto.com.

Darn barn swallows

For a couple of years now I've had a string of aluminum foil strips hanging above my front door, causing my friends to wonder what Eastern philosophy I've converted to.

I always laugh, explaining how the shiny metal is keeping the pesky birds from building their nest there.

That is, until this year.

A pair of barn swallows came back with a vengeance this spring, swooping and diving at the front entry, screeching their disapproval, daring the illicit metal tags to stop them from rebuilding their nest there. The chatter was pretty terrifying, actually.

After hearing the commotion for several days, I went out on the porch to see what was up, and there above our door sat two of the sweetest little birdies you could imagine. I was surprised to see them stay put while I examined them. Their little heads cocked; I asked what they were doing.

They held their ground. And I relented.

"OK, you can stay," I told them.

Immediately after that -- and not before -- the pair began depositing throatfuls of mud and straw, layer by bubbly layer, in the area surrounded by the foil strips. Soon bits of fluffy feathers lined the nest and I waited expectantly for the chirping of hungry babies.

Finally, after weeks of waiting and washing little poopies off my doorstep, we saw an egg. Cracked open on my doormat, that is. Soon another fell from the nest -- or was pushed out by a predator.

I am crestfallen. I had my camera all poised for a shot of hungry little mouths, opened wide, waiting for sustenance. But I got bupkiss.

Soon the "sweet" little birdies will be gone. And I'll be up on the ladder, scrubbing away all their hard work.

It's not that I'm a bird hater. Really. I just can't stand the heartbreak.

A photographic scavenger hunt

Kodak is sponsoring a contest this month that asks us to enter five specific photos each week during June. I've been having a bit of fun with it--looking for creative ways to fulfill the assignments.

Week 1 asked for a photo of a cupcake, so I called upon my daughter Mindi. (Poor thing, that's what she gets for living with me!)

Pretty yummy, huh? I like to call this one "Guilty Pleasures."

The face of determination

The Community Collaborative Charter School graduates celebrate reaching their goal.

I recently photographed the graduation ceremonies of two independent study schools. These kids have had to overcome disheartening odds to reach the stage this day, where their proud principals, school board members and teachers waited to award them their diplomas.

Many of these young people are foster kids, homeless, working full time, single parents ... to them, issues like who wore the same dress to prom really are kid stuff.

One young woman accepted her "overcomer" award with tears streaming down her face. She'd endured the exhaustion of working full time, with two small children, as she finished her requirements. Another young mother persisted until, on her eighth try, she finally passed the math portion of the high school exit exam.

Many were of above-average age: one of the teachers proudly pointed out the 22-year-old who came back to see him at the independent charter school after having dropped out -- again. He had a job offer, but the employer couldn't use him unless he had a diploma. His priorities clear, he finally completed his coursework.

Sitting among the audience, listening to the hubbub of the parents, friends and babies, I could tell that many of these youth would not repeat the scene among university compatriots. Nevertheless, this day would change their lives forever. They have at least tasted the satisfaction of completing a worthy goal. They know now that hard work does pay off.

They can do anything they set their minds to do. Congratulations, Class of 2010!

Inspired by vegetables!

I was simply strolling through the produce aisle the other day, gathering my tomatoes and zucchini for dinner, when shazam! -- I encountered the most breathtaking artichokes I'd ever seen.

Their silvery petals bent uniformly inward, like a delicate flower (which I guess they are!). Completely spherical, these were. Unique little orbs of goodness. I had to have them--not so much as a tasty appetizer--but for a photographic study.

Once I had these little beauties home on my kitchen counter, I gathered up all their little fruit and veggie compatriots and we went into the studio. My mother even contributed lemons and pineapple for contrast. Am I making you hungry yet?

Flying in a Cessna isn't for sissies

Did I tell you about the time my dad’s friend took us flying?

Jeff and Neil, Dad’s walking buddies, have a little Cessna that they hangar near Mojave, so we headed out there one fall day when I was visiting. I had been interested in going flying with them since I became enthralled with the San Andreas fault and Dad mentioned the guys would be happy to fly me over sections of the fault near his home in Palmdale.

That trip never came together, but this sunny fall day, Dad and Jeff and I went for a spin.

Jeff, the pilot, let me sit in the co-pilot’s seat so I could take pictures. We taxied out on the runway and poof! were in the air. I had my headset on so I could hear Jeff if he needed to communicate with me, and they helped muffle the steady whine of the engine.

Our route took us toward the mountain pass leading to Lake Isabella, where we would land and have supposedly the best burger this side of the Pecos.

Now, usually I’m a very good flyer. I’ve been in lots of small commercial jets and prop planes, and whenever we’ve hit turbulence, I go into a sort of Lamaze-breathing trance that sees me through quite well.

And this trip wasn’t too rough. The sensation of being in such a small craft as drafts and eddies cause it to hop and skip along does take some getting used to, but nothing I couldn’t handle. I just sat back and relaxed and enjoyed the stellar view.

After a while, Jeff asked me, “Do you mind if I get the nose up a bit?”

Why should I mind?

“You just fly the plane anyhow you need to. You’re the pilot,” I assured him.

I didn’t quite understand the significance of his query.

After heading what seemed to be straight up, Jeff dropped the nose suddenly and sent us plummeting back to earth.

Mind you, Dad, sitting in the back seat, was without earphones and had no idea what was happening. To his credit (and mine!) we remained silent. Perhaps we were preoccupied with the condition of our drawers.
After a few moments, we leveled off and Jeff explained that he was trying to open flap on the piton tube. Without air streaming into the tube, the airspeed indicator didn’t work.

Not good!

Our experienced pilot wasn’t too concerned, however, as he simply kept up a good, steady pace, probably well above what was needed to keep us safely aloft. It did mean, however, that we would have to bypass the landing and our burgers.

The rest of our flight was beautiful, albeit a bit bumpy over the mountains. My Lamaze breathing trick failed me, but fortunately I hadn’t anything in my stomach. What a view!

I’m glad I went, although I was really glad we didn’t head over to Catalina or some crazy thing like that.
I happily retire my Cessna wings.

Join us for a ride in the following video:

Pardon me, DMV -- it's none of your business!

Every time I have to renew my driver’s license, I get stuck in a cycle of guilt and vanity worthy of Perseus. You see, it’s been several years since the last renewal, which can only mean that one or more pieces of information on the document is no longer accurate. And I don’t mean the color of my eyes.

You know what I mean.

Yes, my weight. I can’t believe that the number that so horrified me at age 21 now seems an unrealistic ideal. Heck, if I weighed that now I’d be a vision – a goddess, I tell you. That number (that I won’t mention) was then dozens less than my young husband. A respectable female-male gap then existed that remained for several years.

And then the duplicity began.

I did pretty well at keeping the “fat” wolf at bay until my mid- to late thirties. But then, as my driver’s license renewals came due, “that number” didn’t get updated nearly as often as my photo. After all, I was just carrying a few extra pounds temporarily.

There were all sorts of very valid reasons:

1. I just moved to a new house.
2. I was just starting a new job.
3. The kids were driving me crazy.
4. It was November.
5. The sun was out.

Anyway, by the time it became obvious that I wasn’t going to reclaim my age-21 weight, I was stuck. And I think it’s the DMV’s fault.

No, really. I do. Think about it: the first time you renew, all you have to do is send in a check and they reissue the license with all the previous information intact. The next time they only ask that you go in and get a new photo.

“Same address?”

“Yes.”

“Step over here for your photo.”

Eventually you have to take the test again, and the clerk will probably ask if all the information is still correct. What are you supposed to say?

“Everything’s the same but I now dye my hair blonde.”

Come on, they know people change their hair color. So I just give ‘em what it was originally. I guess. I forget.

Address? Check. Been the same for 22 years.

Eyes? Blue-green. Blue. Whatever. That doesn’t change.

Then, the pause.

“Uh, excuse me, sir. Could you bump up my weight by 30 pounds? I’d hate to be found left for dead and the officer not be able to recognize me from the description on my license.”

Yeah, right.

It’d be different if I were simply filling out a form and some clerk just typed in the data. But to make this particular change, you have to actually call their attention to the fact that you’ve been enjoying too much ice cream for far too long. Then they give you the smirk. The knowing non-smile. They don’t say a word. Bastards.

So, naturally, I’d rather avoid all that.

Judging by my driver’s license, I’m the picture of fitness. And what goes past the checker on the conveyor belt at the grocery store has no connection to the weight on my license, right? What happens in Safeway stays in Safeway.

“Did you put my Oreos in the bag with the Slimfast?” I ask as I put away my ID.

You gotta love a woman who could play poker with James Bond.