I’ve purposely stayed away from posting anything about the Georgetown  fire late Saturday night at Ponderosa Pet Resort that took the lives of 75 dogs.   This post won’t get into the issue of business permits, or the fire’s cause.    The pain these families must be going through is beyond my imagination.   To many of us, dogs are not just pets, they are integral to the fabric of our families.  These photos were made during a vigil for the lost dogs  held Tuesday night at San Gabriel Park.  Two women are pictured holding photos of their lost dogs, Bear, and Sammy. As I age, covering any kind of hard news gets more depressing.   I decided to post after careful thought, but mostly because a woman who lost her dog in the fire  stopped to thank me for covering the vigil, enough reason to share what I saw. Any journalist who can cover this kind of story without empathy needs to find something else to do.

The Autumnal Equinox is here.   Even though the calendar tells us it’s fall, that doesn’t mean an end to hot weather in Texas.  But luck was with us in Central Texas today.   This morning’s temperature hovered around 60, with just 44% humidity.   Knowing a cool day awaited us, I managed to get up and going well before dawn this morning, stopping for a few minutes to watch the sun come up over a portion of the San Gabriel River as it begins to flow just east of the Granger Lake dam.   Light adorned with orange, yellow and blue hovered over a dark swath of Blackland Prairie, but the river was sparkling as it meandered through the countryside.  The first photo was taken 25 minutes before sunrise, the second about 15 minutes before.   When the sun finally came up at 7:20, it was a bright hot ball, a little intense for first light, but still nice.   Preparing to leave, in the western sky above Granger Lake the Waning Gibbous moon, still close to full at 97.3% visibility, was a nice thing to see above trees saturated with early-morning warmth.    The moon photo is about 20 minutes after sunrise.  After that, the light’s delicate touch became harsher.   I headed home.

Lord knows how many times I’ve taken photos of these excellent red barns that rest in far northeastern Travis County, a stone’s throw from our home in Taylor.   One version lives on as a print on the living room wall.  This little collection taken a few evenings ago hopefully makes a point about the occurrence of light on a subject.  The first three photos were made about 30-40 minutes before sunset.  The last two were made about 30 minutes after sunset.  I think back to the days when I was working full-time at a newspaper.  Without fail, editors would send me out to photograph a site, or a person, at the absolute worst time of day.  With people photos, I get it.   Subjects aren’t always available at optimum times.   But with architectural subject matter always aim for the best light when you can.

Tonight’s Harvest Moon shining over the Georgetown Square.  The cupola adorns Gumbo’s, a restaurant on the square.   The building was at one time Georgetown’s Masonic Lodge.

The moon is at 99.3% visibility tonight.   Monday night will bring a Harvest Moon, but it comes well past sunset.   I like the way it looked in Wuthrich Hill, Texas this evening.  And yes, it’s Prince of Peace Lutheran Church.   Of course. 

Before the sun rose this morning, I was at Taylor’s Heritage Square Park for the Texas Mamma Jamma Ride, a bike ride coordinated by Lone Star Circle of Care.  The ride benefits the Big Pink Bus, Lone Star’s  Mobile Mammography Unit.   The rides gave cyclists four  different mile choices: 70, 50, 25 and 15, taking participants through some of the lovely scenic areas of East and North Williamson County.   Cancer survivors were significant participants in the event.  At the start, they were given the positions out front.   Three of these eight photos are survivors.   There were many more than what you see here.   It’s a cool event, for an important cause.   The gentleman in the tutu rode his entire 70 miles adorned in pink.  

This windmill is from a recent drive through the North Williamson County town of Walburg.   Although it’s yet another windmill, the colorful evening sky was reason enough to stop.   Both photos are of the same windmill.   As an old newspaper guy from the print journalism days, we’d often turn in photos that could be readable if run large, but we’d also do something tighter in the event space was tight.    The wide version is my preference.

Perhaps mentioned a few times before, but it bears repeating tonight.   Not long after moving home to Texas in the summer of 2009, I was taking a less-traveled road to Austin.   Looking into the far distance, this incredible spire literally seemed to fly out of the earth.   I later learned this was New Sweden Evangelical Lutheran Church.  The congregation was formed by Swedish immigrants in 1876.   The current structure, with its 104-foot tall copper spire, began to take shape in 1921, completed two years later.    It’s still an active church today, only a few miles northeast of Manor, in Travis County.    Regarding tonight’s photos, I’ve recently traveled along a road about a mile east of the church, thinking there might be a sunset image to be made.   It didn’t work out last week, but did when these were taken last night.   In addition to the opening photos, others are included.   The post concludes with two friendly dogs who felt compelled to tag along as I took photos.   I spent a few minutes trying to coax them off the road.  Alas, folks and their country dogs.    Hopefully, they found their way safely  back home.   It was an interesting evening.

Because it’s so white, a field of healthy cotton shows up nicely even as darkness comes.   This scene captured my attention last evening a little east of Georgetown.    This is one of those crops only seen in the warmer climates.   I’m not sure where it stops being viable in the United States, but you’ll not likely see it in the upper south, or most places in the midwest.   We grow a lot of it here.

This is a view from the village of Coupland, Texas that perhaps gives you a sense of what I’m talking about when waxing poetic about the Blackland Prairie.  If you visit my  area, take a look at the color of the soil.   That aside, through the years, I’ve taken a version of this photo from ground level as the road caresses  the St. Peter’s Church  Cemetery.   The road winds around, becoming a dirt road leading to a decrepit bridge over Brushy Creek.   Note that the bridge in question is not the nicer truss bridge east of here.  The bridge at the end of this road is falling apart.   During my one visit there a few years ago, a rattlesnake had issues with my presence.   She probably didn’t get much interaction with humans.  Needless to say, I’ve not returned.  The high vantage point for this image was made possible by the kindness of a man who lived on a hill across the road.  With no notice at all, I pulled to a stop in his driveway, knocked on the door and asked if I could take a photo from his property.   The sun was going down fast.   He was kind enough to allow the intrusion.   I offered to send him a photo, but haven’t heard back yet.   Frank Armstrong, one of my UT-Austin professors in the early 70s made a photo along this road a number of years ago.  Thankfully, development hasn’t marred the landscape.  Yet. It’s a simple photo, but that’s okay.