Honey went home—She’s romping in animal heaven

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

HONEY WENT HOME

She’s romping about animal heaven

 It looked good for Honey’s recovery when I posted Honey’s Coming Home! Our cat must recuperate. What happened a few days later was surprising. Honey’s story continues below. 

     Honey lay on the table in the examination room at Loyalhanna Veterinary Clinic, Inc. I sat and observed her closely, looking to see if her heart was demonstrating the same rapid and hard rhythm I had seen during the previous evening.

     At about 8:45 a. m. Saturday morning I’d called the vet’s office to share my concerns. Following her visit to the clinic on August 20, when she’d been diagnosed with two fractures on the top of her leg near her hip bone, she’d done fine. She didn’t like being confined, but it was a minor price to pay for her recuperation time. She ate, slept, purred and accepted her medication: prednisolone.

To see pictures of Honey, click on: http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/3872399797/  & http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/3873184126/in/photostream/

      On Thursday, the 27^th, I cut her medication in half. The morning dose went fine, but she fought the evening dose. Not just fought it. She

Honey’s Coming Home! Our cat must recuperate

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

HONEY’S COMING HOME!

Our cat must recuperate

      Honey’s coming home. It was good news to hear after spending the weekend preparing for the alternative.

     On Thursday, Honey didn’t show up for breakfast. During the summer, I begin my day sitting on my patio with a book and the newspaper, a cup of coffee, my meds, and a dish of cat food. Honey always joins me, wanting her dish on the outside table next to my tray. This year her habit became more intense. She stopped eating

Vicious dog or man’s best friend?

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

VICIOUS DOG OR MAN’S BEST FRIEND?

      Often dog owners often have a less-than-realistic opinion of their pet’s personalities. An owner’s loyalty to their dog precludes any insight into its degree of viciousness.

     Bob Petrillo, a Jeanette (PA) dog owner, believes authorities “overreacted” when they shot and killed his pet. Rocky was a one hundred fifty pound Rottweiler. Police justified the shooting because, they claim, Rocky

Two Photographers Named Cornell

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

TWO PHOTOGRAPHERS NAMED CORNELL

      It was July 2002, a time I recall because everyone was riveted to the television news watching reports of the Quecreek (PA) mine disaster (QUECREEK MINE DISASTER: A 21st Century Historical Site in Somerset County, PA).  I was sitting in my sister Kitty’s New Jersey living room watching the successful but dramatic rescue, located just up the mountain from my Laurel Mountain Borough (PA) home, while scanning a trunk full of photographs taken by my father—his Navy buddies, aerial views of different countries, creative photo compositions. As I recall, it was a tremendously hot day, and I had to sit in front of fans while working.

     Before I came to this task, several of my photos had been “feature photos” in the Fay West section of the Greensburg (PA) Tribune Review. One was a distant view of Mt. Pleasant (PA) from Three Mile Hill (which bottoms out in Laurelville) on Route 31, descending downwards towards Bullskin Township. The sunset scene created a view of Mt. Pleasant in full flame, burning to a crisp. It was surrealistic, making me wonder if the town really was on fire.

     I wondered, as I quickly scanned my father’s photographs, whether—or what—my father had contributed to my photographic skill, noted by editors in Greensburg as well as my Fay West editor, Ed Cope (now working as head photographer at the Herald Standard in Uniontown), who is, himself, a great photographer.

     This could be a nature versus nurture debate. Although I knew my father was a photographer, his involvement in my life had been minimal, and ended at my age four. Because of his sparse presence,  I only have a few photos that he took of my sister and I.

     Yet, at a very early age, before I knew he was a Chief Naval Photographer, I enjoyed taking pictures—especially humorous ones. One of my first pictures was of my mother napping on the couch. I placed a potty seat insert on her head for a hat, and snapped the photo. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/3819585858/ )

     I don’t intend to

Honus Wagner & Me

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

HONUS WAGNER & ME

     When Johannes Peter Wagner babysat the late Harriette Parker in Carnegie (PA), she feared him because of his large hands, according to her daughter, Arlene Carr. Those same hands, later described as “shovel-like,” accompanied his large size, bowed legs and long arms—a combination that contributed to his clumsiness.

     Johannes, who  played eighteen seasons with the Pirates—1900-1917—is featured in the play

Journalism Rules and Professionalism: I had neither!

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

JOURNALISM RULES AND PROFESSIONALISM

I Had Neither!

      In searching for a certain picture, I came across my first press pass (http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/?saved=1 ).

     Over the years that I have been a freelance newspaper photojournalist, my editors had to put up with a lot from me. I was definitely not always “professional.”

     I was working at the newspaper until closing time, and the editor asked me (for the tenth time) if I could be back the first thing in the morning to complete our work.

     “Yes,” I said. “I’ll roll out of bed and into the office.”

     The next morning, I put my work clothes on, but didn’t wash my face or comb my hair. I grabbed my papers, my floor-length, maroon, fluffy bathrobe and my matching slippers. When I arrived at the newspaper, I parked in the back. I put on the robe and replaced my shoes with my slippers before entering the back door of the office.

     As I entered, I feigned yawning, as I said, “I told you I would just roll out of bed and into the office.”

     During the time I worked at one newspaper, I was needed to help my daughter with her newborn baby, Jordan. I would pack my briefcase, camera case, bottles and diapers when I took an article in to be edited (I sat with the editors while they worked on improving my writing). I would spread a blanket out on the floor (Jordan was not crawling yet) and work with the editor. Often, I would have to take a few minutes break to prepare her bottle, change her diaper, or quiet her down.

     I remember being asked by one editor to cover a wrestling banquet that I was attending. “No,” I said, turning and leaving. Tossing over my shoulder, “I know nothing about wrestling.” Then I did a turnabout. “Yes, I can,” I told the editor. “My husband is a wrestler, and he can edit it for me.” Monte did, and laughed at my mistakes while he corrected them. The article went in great.

     A mother should know her son’s name, right? Well…she may…but she may not always use it. I almost caused the newspaper lawsuit when I submitted the name of a five year old, given to me by his mother. She, however, was divorced from the child’s father, and told me his last name was the same as hers was. She had remarried. Never did I expect that a mother would lie about her son’s name. I erred, breaking the rule about asking the child to give me his name.

     But then, the editors I worked with didn’t follow the rules either. I found that together we “broke” some of the rules of journalism. Below are a couple of these “rules.”

REMAIN FREE OF ASSOCIATIONS AND ACTIVITIES THAT MAY COMPROMISE INTEGRITY OR DAMAGE CREDIBILITY.

AVOID CONFLICTS OF INTEREST, REAL OR PERCEIVED.

     Obviously, this implies that the journalist should not write about the organizations  with which they are involved. However, Jamestown (PA) is a small, rural town. When I arrived on the scene, the long-term freelancer for the Greenville Record Argus newspaper was ready to pass the job on, and I became the recipient. I also received a grant from the Children’s Trust Fund based on the premise that healing an adult of their childhood abuse would break the intergenerational chain of abuse. After receiving word of the grant I approached the newspaper’s and informed him that the new program needed a picture in the newspaper. Community residents needed to know about the new program. Logically, it should be the head of the program (me) photographed with the director of the county’s Children and Youth agency. I fully expected him to say

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY: Nancy Briskay Cornell Lipsius

CAROLYN’S COMPOSITIONS

MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Nancy Briskay Cornell Lipsius

With the permission of Nancy Briskay Cornell Lipsius’s children, my siblings, I am adding a category to my weblog: www.carolyncholland.wordpress.com, My mother wrote most of the pieces I will post while she attended the University of Maine—graduating when she was in her seventh decade of life.

I am honored to have you come to know my mother through her writings. I am also honored to have my mother introduce herself in the first three posts, MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY, DECADES, and ASSESSMENT. Following these posts, I will begin posting her other writings, including her poetry.

In my once-upon-a-time life I danced to the music of gentle lapping of the waves on the shore (photo at http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/3790587052/in/photostream/ ), raucous cries of seagulls, (photo at http://www.flickr.com/photos/carolyncholland/3789772539/in/photostream/ ) lonely blasts of the fog horn, wind caressing the crown of tall pines, the whistle of the Yankee Flyer train.

Happiness was a warm slice of fresh-baked bread slathered with creamy butter, sometimes liberally sprinkled with brown sugar. It was “digging to China,” making snow forts, swimming under water, throwing jelly fish at each other, climbing and exploring rocks, nestling down in Dad’s big chair with a book and a large red apple. It was lessons in charcoal drawing.

Love was my