The Elms of Central Park
The elm trees in Central Park have a special meaning for me. In ranks of four or five they go from near the band shelter, past the new statue of the pioneers of women’s rights, the statues of poets and Shakespeare. A wide walkway goes down the center. Merchants sell art on canvas and metal, buskers sing, but mostly people stroll. The majestic height of the canopy filters out the harshest sun and mutes any noise from the metropolis just a few blocks away.
I love that these trees still exist and I understand the care and diligence that makes their presence possible.
In our yard there were five elm trees. Two in the front yard joined the elms of our neighbors to make a cathedral like arch over the street that extended over most streets in our little town of 3,800. In the back yard the elms served as handers for the clotheslines. Their canopy was high enough that home run derbies with whiffle balls and plastic bats seldom interfered. Next door our neighbor had the remnants of a well left over from the days when this had been a pasture. Over looking the well was a giant elm. Its trunk was twice the thickness of any nearby tree. Its canopy was enormous, leaning over all the adjacent yards.
The trees gave shade in the hot Kansas summer. We sat on the porch swing in the afternoons in the coolness they provided as the day turned into evening and the fireflies came out.
I was ten or twelve when we took a car trip to New York, and as we came through the midwest, we noticed that the elms trees were dying. Whole parts of tress had brown shriveled leaves and there were crews of men crawling around tress bringing them down branch by branch. Whole towns and neighborhoods were bare of trees. The houses, stripped of the sheltering gothic arches, looked forlorn, poor and shabby.
We were seeing the effects of Dutch elm disease, killing every elm tree in its path. Within one or two years the blight came for our trees. The majestic tree by the well was first followed by the rest. Itinerant tree crews set up in town and started the process of cutting down every blighted tree in town. By the end of fall the crews were gone and so were all the elm trees.
Now our little town looked all the other towns we had seen on our trip. Without the elms we were naked under the beating sun of summer and exposed to the cold blasts from the north in winter As I was coming into adolescence I realized that my town was poor and run down, a backwater that I would leave as soon as possible.
I am grateful that I can see these majestic giants with their corkscrew limbs climbing to great heights above me as I stroll down the path. The last of their kind perhaps but loved more for it.
Orange County in June
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A gallery of images from Orange County, specifically around Laguna Niguel is now up on the site. Rosy and I had a great time visiting our friend and relaxing in the coolness of the area. We were expecting very warm weather, but we got lots of fog in the morning and cool temperatures. By the coast the fog stayed around until the afternoon, looking like low clouds. We did have some sunny days, but they never got too hot.
The west coast has experienced some horrific conditions this summer—drought, fires, heat waves and other biblical plagues, but we had a very pleasant stay. The coolness was a break from the heat in New York and the water and beaches were beautiful to see.
Here is the link to the gallery
Everything is Bigger in Texas
I am still amazed at the size of grocery stores in the heartland. Back in the day, say the eighties, stores were cramped and dirty: one cart wide aisles, little selection, lousy greens and dingy floors. There are now bigger stores, Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s have made beach heads with large stores. Still, the spaciousness of the floors with so much room around the displays is still a shock.
In coming posts I will write about the rest of our trip to California. See the gallery of images from Texas here.
San Antonio, Texas 2021
To paraphrase Melville:
When we find ourselves growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp and drizzly November of the soul; and when it requires a strong moral principle not to knock off people’s hats then—instead of signing up for a three year’s whaling voyage to the other side of the world—we headed out of town for a much more modest length of time and distance. This is our way of driving off the hypos after 18 months of being in the same few square blocks of the city of the Manhattos.
After so long in one place and so isolated from so many, it was hard to even plan to travel. We seemed to have forgotten how to travel, how to pack, plan. We finally overcame our hesitancy and left the city behind.
But we didn’t start out with great ambition, we were just going to see old friends and family in mostly familiar territory.
Except Texas.
My experience of Texas has mostly been trying to get from one side of the state to the other as fast as the law allowed. And the old Mac Davis song had been mostly true for me—“happiness is Texas in my rear view mirror.”
Growing up in Kansas I had enough of flat monotonous land that goes on forever with grain silos to mark the small towns along the railroads. But my childhood friend Louis and his husband, Sterling, who had performed the wedding of Rosy and myself, had moved to San Antonio the year before and had invited us to their new home.
We had a great time even in the hot days of summer. We went for walks and went sightseeing either in the mornings or later in the evenings. Of course the museums and indoor spaces are chilled to Alaska temperatures.
My New Series of Postcards
During the pandemic I spent a lot of time in Central Park enjoying being out of the apartment and being very socially distant in a space that had very few people. One of my joys was riding my bide around the 6 mile loop through the park. But I also carried a camera with me and I would stop and walk around for a while and take some pictures. In the past weeks I have gone over these images and find I have a lot, especially of the spring. The spring of 2020 occurred in the middle of the worst times for New York City. I biked past the oxygen trailers giving off clouds of condensate vapor and the morgue trailers parked on the street. But nature did not care. Spring last year was a riot of color and surging new growth. Being there gave hope on one hand, but on the other, it was harsh to know that nature doesn’t care—life goes on regardless.
But this spring feels more hopeful and looking at my images from this year and last I realize that there are some good ones and I wanted to do something with some of them. As many people know, I have over the last 20 years made a seasonal card from a Polaroid transfer. The project might be coming to an end or at least in its current form as 4×5 Polaroid is unavailable to me. More on that later. But with the seasonal images of Central Park I have decided to make a series of cards for Spring, Fall and Winter. I plan to do them in groups of four, and the first set is done. One of them is shown back and front. The inside is blank for notes. And they will envelopes.
So stqy tuned for more. I will post just the images without the text on the back to Instagram. Go to: https://www.instagram.com/kbroch77/ to see my posts, or go the the front page of my site. brochmann.com
It’s been a long journey
From East 3rd Street to 77th Street. Almost 40 years and I am still here. There is a nostalgia for the days of film now, and here is an image on Kodachrome taken from my apartment back in 1982. I had no idea how it would turn out, and I wouldn’t know until I went uptown and had if processed. A courier would pick up the film from the lab in the “Photo District,” now the “Flatiron District,” and take it to New Jersey somewhere where Kodak had its lab. Several days later, unless you paid for rush service, you would see the film.
I am not nostalgic for those days when you had to wait for the lab before you could strike the set and move on to the next shot. Now you shoot it, show it, change it, shoot again, everyone loves it—next.