Optimist

Fiddler's Green

The first time she talked to me, my heart skipped a beat. i certainly had not expected her to do so. Lord only knew that I was working up my courage to talk with her before she went back on stage, so that I could ask her about shooting her performance. i quickly nodded my head. "Sure, chips and a burger sound fine. I appreciate your help." I offered my hand. "I'm Peter MacDonald, photographer. Pleased to meet you miss." I was used to introducing myself by my profession, since so much of my work was photographing locals where ever I found myself. I did not just capture the lands, but the people that lived in them.

Karen was a short, round woman with soft brown hair and big brown eyes. She looked tired and stressed, but smiled at us readily enough. "Sure mister. Alice, you want your usual?"

I forget now how she replied, because I was, I am afraid, staring at her openly. Usually i am more polite than that, but not in this instance. "I caught the tail end of your last set. I am doing a book on Newfoundland. How would you feel about having me take pictures of your second set? You could have full approval over the photographs used, of course." I normally would have said photograph, but something told me that more than one of my photographs of her would end up in any book I put out.

Lavender Green (kittenlover and I)

Bert walked over to where is cousin was waiting. She smiled up at him. "Hi Cuz." "Hi yourself, he replied," as he offered her his arm. They crossed over onto the dance floor and joined in the dancing. His cousin was terribly shy, but had known him her entire life. They were very close and she never minded dancing with him. Soon they were having a really good time. Despite this, he was ever aware of the red haired girl dancing near them. His cousin teased him for staring and encouraged him to ask her to dance, but he felt loyalty to his cousin.

One dance lead into the next, and he suddenly felt some one staring at him. He turned around and the red haired girl was looking at him, from the middle of the dance floor. His heart jumped. Suddenly her gaze ended, when she was plowed into by two other dances. The girl of his dreams fell flat on her butt on the floor, sat there for a moment and then got up and quickly exited the barn. He felt bad that others were laughing at her, rather than actually helping her out. Sally shoved his shoulder gently. "Go after her stupid." He gave Sally a big hug of gratitude and headed out of the barn, into the night air.

He found her just outside the barn, with her eyes closed and her arms around herself. Without thinking it through, he touched her arm. "Are you O.K. miss?" He did not mean to startle her, or be intrusive, but he was honestly concerned, and smitten at the same time.

Crimson Tide (MegaraFoxfire and I)

Roger was taken aback by the transformation. The woman was beautiful, and remarkable fit after having a fever and illness. He recovered quickly though and answered. "The plan is difficult. As each man passes over the gang plank, he states his name and is given his wages. We are going to wrap your head in bandages and have you give the name Andrew Smyth. He is below in the sick bay, still being treated, and will be one of the last one's off. We are going to steal is identity for you. I know his wife and can get him his wages later. Once we are off the boat, we should have a clear shot at getting you to the baroness's mansion."

He looked over at the baroness. "Am I missing anything milady?" She shook her head slowly. "I do not believe so."

He took a roll of bandages out from beneath his coat and walked over to Wolfbane. "Hold still." He started to wrap the bandages around her head, covering most of it.

Northern Exposure (Ophelia and I)

Dr. Jonathan Martin was sick and tired of whiny patients and flirtatious nurses. He was tired of the long days and nights, with little sleep. He was tired of the concrete jungle. He had finally decided to pack it all in and move to Alaska. His friends all called him crazy and questioned how a New York doctor could survive in the great frozen North.

His crisis of faith had started months before he actually resigned his position at the hospital, put his house up for sale, and packed all that really mattered into a single van. He had taken his time traveling North-West. He had enjoyed the Great Lakes and Canada, before arriving at the tiny town of Howell Alaska.

As he drove into town, he could see that it was little more than a single street with five or six buildings on either side of the road. A neon sign was lit up, showing the local drinking establishment. There was a church, a filling station and half a dozen other stores and establishments. He pulled up in front of the sheriff's office and got out.

Dr. Martin was a tall, wide shouldered man with a narrow waist and a muscular frame. His dark hair was cut short and he was clean shaven. A pair of rectangular shaped spectacles framed a handsome face with a firm chin and full lips. He was dressed in a green parka and blue jeans.

Someone was supposed to meet him at the sheriff's office to him the clinic. The old doctor had retired to Florida a few months ago and the town had been trying to attract another doctor since. His contact was a Alex Murphy, the mayor of the town. He had never even spoken to the man. Their conversations had been conducted by e-mail, so he did not know what to expect.

Northern Exposure (Ophelia and I)

Here we go.

Fiddler's Green

When I first saw her, she was dancing on stage. It was her flashing legs and infectious smile which caught my eye. There was a long, low stage in the bar and she was the principle entertainment that afternoon. To say she was attractive would be an understatement. She was simply gorgeous and still is. I did not know anything about her, of course, but I immediately wanted to.

The pub was already pretty full at the time, so I took a seat at the bar. There was a low haze of cigarette smoke, which was to be expected. It was unpleasant, but worth enduring to see her dancing her heart out. Most of the patrons were watching her as well. They seemed to be a mixture of locals and tourists. The later I could spot a mile away. I've traveled enough in my career to know what a tourist looks like. They are the clueless ones, that just don't fit in. I always like to think that I break that stereotype to some extent.

Anyway, back to the story. She, much to my disappointment, called for a break. I figured I would stick around to see the second half of her show. I even though about photographing it, if she would allow it. I was sure that a photo of her, with her red skirt twirly around her thighs and her infectious energy, would work well in my photo study of Newfoundland. Besides which, i had not yet had lunch and was starving. The barman was busy, so I waited patiently for a waitress. i could tell it might be a bit of a wait with the dense crowd in the pub.

it always amazes me how people can drink in the middle of the afternoon. i am not much of a drinker myself, since I do not like losing control of my faculties. I had an embarrassing incident in university, which I am not going to relate, and ever since I have limited my intake. Still, the crowds were drinking, though it appeared to be mostly mixed drinks and beer, not hard liquor.

Fiddler's Green

No, I saw the post and I am writing a response right now.

Wednesday is Pancake day

What about crepes?

Lavender Green (kittenlover and I)

Lavender Blue Dilly Dilly, Lavender Green

Bert MacDonald knew he would marry her the moment he saw her, from across the room. It was only a matter of convincing the girl of what was sure to happen. He had driven half way across the county to attend the barn dance. His old Ford truck was parked outside and waiting to drive the girl home, if she would agree.

Bert was a slender lad of nineteen years, with slicked back brown hair and a new tan suit. He had fine, but handsome features and big green eyes. He was a student at a local college, studying agriculture. His family owned a farm, and he was expected to follow in his father's footsteps, but until his father, his parents wanted him to get an education.

The barn chosen for the dance was a traditional red barn on the Thompson farm. The floor was covered in straw and lights were strung up for the dance. Girls in colorful dresses and boys were already out dancing, doing the dance steps as instructed by the caller. A fiddler and a washtub bass player provided the music. The boys were dressed in suits or clean overalls and were all locals. Bert was the only one here not from this town, but he was to meet his cousin Sally at the dance. Mother had told him to be nice to her. Sally was a pleasant girl, but shy and a bit of a wallflower.

After spotting the girl of his dreams, dancing with another boy, he spotted his cousin, predictably sitting by herself near the refreshment table. She had pale yellow hair and a narrow face. She was dressed in a hand-me down dress from her older sister which was not flattering to her rather slender figure. He waved at her and grinned.

Fiddler's Green

Fiddler's Green

On the shores of Newfoundland, in the village of Raliegh, stands the pub Fiddler's Green. I first entered this establishment when I was in my twenties, on a trip to photograph the wonders of Newfoundland for my second book of photography. It was a hundred year old building with a Lincoln green coat of paint, faded by the weather and white accented shutters and lentils.

Back then I was a finer figure of a man than I am now. I had a trim waist, muscular forearms and good stamina from my daily running and pushups. I am afraid that time has caught up with my waistline. Back then I wore my auburn hair in a long ponytail, down my back. I tended to dress in jeans and button down shirts. My favorite sloped cap was on my head and my camera was on my chest, ready for whatever might present itself to be shot.

When I entered the pub, I found polished wooden floors, a smokey interior, wooden booths and tables and a long, low stage. A lone fiddler was playing a Breton tune on stage, with a woman clogged alone to his fiddling. She was a beauty who took my breath away. I knew then and there that I must photograph her. My camera rose unbidden to take in the picture of the ancient fiddler playing for the flaxen haired young woman, with her long flashing legs.

But I have forgotten to introduce myself. I am Peter MacDonald, photographer. I went to the University of Hilo in Hawaii and grew up not a stone's throw from that institution. It was a far distance from my island home to Newfoundland. I have no cause to regret that trip though, for it was there that I met my love. This is that tale.