I’m watching my mother spoon a “magic cup” into my grandpa’s mouth. It’s ice cream with nutrients and protein laced throughout; “magic cup” sounds more enticing. This is the state of things at home in Wichita, I’m afraid.

My grandpa is 87-years-old. After being hospitalized for an issue or three in the autumn, he now spends his time in a rehab facility. It’s a temporary nursing home, really, a place to learn how to become mobile again. My parents, my mom’s siblings and my grandma take turns keeping vigil 4-8 hours at a time. It’s been like this for months, a schedule made out for every day of the week, and it could continue for months more.

He doesn’t say much, but he was never one to gab. My sister and I visited him a few nights ago and he awoke long enough to faintly nod hello and mouth goodbye. When words are so few, this suddenly becomes very meaningful.

Imagine an eccentric young nanny in Chicago – a real-life Mary Poppins. Free-spirited, loved by her kids.

That’s magic in itself. But now imagine 100,000 photographs sitting in boxes undiscovered. All taken by Vivian Maier.

This is the story of a young businessman who bought a box full of old photographs for $400. As he began sorting through the images, he decided to post some of them on the Internet to try to glean more information.

And the Internet promptly told him that these were no Kodak snapshots. A deluge of requests and inquiries flooded his email, asking for book deals, art exhibits and more. This stuff is damn good. Almost Cartier-Bresson good, in fact – just incredible street photography. There remains entire boxes of undeveloped film, too. All from a woman who lived into her 80s as a private and solitary unknown.

Chicago Magazine: A Life in Shadow

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The last roll of Kodachrome was processed yesterday. And in Parsons, Kan. of all places! I wish I had some of my own to scan for you, but instead you’ll have to rely on this last roll by National Geographic’s Steve McCurry.

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Remember the “We Can Do It!” war poster? A woman flexing her biceps in a factory? The actual woman the poster was based on has died at the age of 86. And she didn’t even know about the iconic poster until 1982.

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And finally, for those trying to use iPads as serious photo editing devices, there’s an app update that you need to get: Photogene 2.0. I would, but I’m selling mine. I’m the proud papa of an 11” Macbook Air.

I’m disappointed in you, dear friends. I expect to be kept aware of happenings both foreign and domestic, and you’ve let a big one slip. Tonight, for the first time since 1638, a total lunar eclipse will usher in Tuesday’s winter solstice.

Why does it matter, you ask? We’ll start with the lunar eclipse. You’ll see a blood-red moon as the Earth bullies its way in between the sun and our smaller sibling. According to the Times-Picayune, that shadow will start taking a bite out of the moon starting at 12:33 a.m. CST Tuesday. The totality phase will last 72 minutes, starting at 1:41 a.m. And if you’re a lazy bastard, pop your head outside right at 2:17 a.m. CST. Deal?

Those of us with suffocating cloud cover (ahem, Illinois) will be left to hobble outside in 2094 to try again.

Now on to the winter solstice.

While my family in Wichita, Kan. enjoys a 60-degree day, a lot of us are still flirting with mind-numbing cold. It’s cruel and unusual punishment to remind us that it’s not winter yet. For us, autumn is the short, four-week intro to our 5-months of brutal hell (if hell were frozen.) I’m told there are astronomical reasons for it, so let’s review.

As the Earth careens around the sun, the tilt wobbles like an alcoholic mid-binge. Each day becomes shorter than the last as we near the end of the year, until we’re left saying goodbye to daylight at 4 p.m. and waiting 15 hours in darkness until illuminated again. It’s rough stuff, friends. But rejoice, for the winter solstice marks the shortest day of the year! Look for it at 5:38 p.m. CST Tuesday. There will be no fanfare, no fireworks. And probably no cake.

That’s it for class today, kids.

The New York Times: There goes the sun

The Guardian: What the months of the year mean to me

I’ve fallen in love with the library again.

Guffaws, eh? Thanks a lot.

Peoria just completed a $9 million renovation of their downtown branch, the first one since it was built in 1968. There was concern (among me, myself and I) that they would half-ass the rehab after voters approved a dressing-up instead of any new construction.

Let the record show that I was wrong.

Very little of the old library is still recognizable. One of the most touted features is a giant opening they cut right through the center of the bunker-like building. Light streams down from a skylight all the way to the first floor. There’s new furniture with nooks for reading or writing while enjoying a prime view of the downtown scene.

Books seem easier to find, too. I wandered around the second floor and wanted to grab a football-hold of text. A two-week loan period stopped me, though. Four weeks would be dangerous (I’m a habitual late-fine payer.)

I only have two quibbles. One: I really, really dislike self-checkouts. Grocery stores, video stores, and soon – hospitals? I understand that it saves personnel’s time to help patrons with finding books and such, but there’s something satisfying about talking to someone in a place where talking is generally discouraged. Despite this, I’m mighty impressed by the RFID system they’re using. Thrown down your stack of books on a pad and it checks them out in one big batch via radio wave magic. My second quibble seems whiny now. Down with coffee vending machines!

A big part of my childhood was spent in libraries, especially when my mom was still working. I’d walk the short distance from my school to the Westlink Branch in Wichita, Kan., staying clear of the fiction, but guzzling non-fiction until told to stop. Technical books were my mainstay, with young Adam easily reading a good 75-100 pages accidentally while sitting on his legs in an aisle. I even volunteered one summer, shelving books and accomplishing other mindless tasks.

The downtown branch of the Wichita library was remarkable; multi-storied, with the main fiction collection in a huge three-story atrium. It was a rare trip for the Gerik family, but one I begged and pleaded to take as often as possible.

Once off at college, I became a big fan of the Hays, Kan. library. Although serving a town of only 20,000 people, it remains an old girlfriend that I can’t forget. I remember reading something about their funding per capita being astronomical, easily double or triple that of other cities. An attempt to numb the isolation of Western Kansas? I’m remain a bitter man for the rest of my life. Peoria doesn’t even have the new Steve Martin book, “An Object of Beauty.”

So we shall see if Peorians continue to pop inside once the newness wears off. These river city people are notorious for considering the downtown area “dangerous” and a place to avoid after dark. The library has followed suit, shutting its doors at 6pm.

We Geriks converged in Wichita, Kan. in June 2010 and decided a family portrait was in order. Smiles were stale that day, so I remember telling everyone to just relax. A relative manned the cameras (digital and film) and we left relatively satisfied with our humble portrayal.

I recently sent off a roll of film to be processed; Fuji 800 stuck in an Olympus XA rangefinder. It’s old film, the last of massive color bricks we still have at the Journal Star, but it seems to work well enough. What did I find when the prints returned? A bunch of junk and exactly two frames of the Geriks. The poor scan quality might be helping us out a bit.

I don’t remember assaulting my family.

I’m shopping for dried cherries in the grocery store on a recent evening. Modern convenience has crippled me; I panic in aisles filled with twelve varieties of one item, each with slightly different amounts of sugar. With five packages of these damn cherries in my hands, a man approaches me.

“Hi, do I know you?”

Uh, no? No, you do not.

“Hmm, are you sure? You look familiar.”

Well, I work at the Journal Star. Maybe you’ve seen me around.

“I’m Hasan. You seem like someone with their finger on the pulse of Peoria.”

Am I being propositioned? Should I run?

“Are you into energy drinks?”

Now I’m terrified. My damn hand is shaking the bag of dried cherries like a rattle. And no, I’m really not into energy drinks (or anything else you’re selling me.)

“Oh, well, I’m actually not either. But I’m trying to get the word out about a new energy product. Would that be something you’re interested in?”

I’d suggest letting the business desk at the Journal Star know about it. I really have no pull in what we cover.

“Oh, no no, I meant, are you interested in getting the word out personally?”

Sigh.

Hemming and hawing my way around an actual answer, we eventually swap phone numbers. He received digits that were nearly correct.

Sorry, Hasan.

A big part of my daily job is monitoring “the wire” for breaking news developments. These usually come in the form of Associated Press bulletins, unless the world crumbles to pieces, and then they might present as a FLASH.

There’s a bigger difference than the dictionary definitions might indicate. A nuclear explosion in downtown Chicago would merit an AP flash, but a shooting spree at a mall in Omaha would only merit an AP bulletin. No doubt a complex formula of (gravity X scope / amount of news that day) governs this decision.

Royal weddings, on the other hand, clearly test these rules. The breathless coverage on TV at home and abroad might give you the impression that a flash should be issued. “But for shame!”, cry the hardcore newsmen and newswomen, for the annals of news and entertainment shall never meet on the same dark street corner.

The Associated Press is not in the business of creating wars – just covering them. So a series of bulletins was moved on Prince William’s engagement to commoner Kate Middleton. And the world breathed a collective sigh of relief.

There’s drizzle on my window, tea on the stove, an apartment in disarray around me.

In this apartment is a cello, on extended loan from a friend, but in need of some TLC. The instrument seems sound enough, with four strings that resonate when plucked and no giant pieces missing. Cosmetically, though, it’s been around the block.

I’ve tamed (or at least tackled) a lot of instruments in my life: piano, organ, clarinet, flute, French horn, bass guitar and various marimbas and percussive devices. Friends still express shock when learning about my not-so-secret past; I’m better known as a guy with a camera.

To me, the cello represents a form of maximum expression that seems difficult on many other instruments. I’ve wanted one for years. It’s been said that the cello is the closest approximation of a human voice; I might be able to make you cry with a piano, but could I do it with a single line of notes – no chords expressing major or minor modes?

A new bow is needed. Amazon to the rescue; we’ll know if I can draw a pleasant sound out of it in a week.

Autumn in Action: I created this multimedia project last year, accompanied by cello

I find myself relying more and more on cell phones and point & shoot cameras. And you know what? I’m absolutely comfortable with that. Candidness easily trumps immaculate quality.

I’ve had this discussion with other photographers; budget reductions at newspapers throughout the country have resulted in cameras 4, 5, even 6-years-old still being used. While annoying, it may actually make us better photographer in the end. Megapixels and insane light sensitivity aren’t everything. I’m more than that.

I mean, all indications point to it. Man toppling off of chair, 1:30 a.m. on the clock, gray hairs on head. He came home from work and practiced Lamaze exercises. AND HE ISN’T EVEN PREGNANT!

This certainly isn’t the first time.

Not at all. (link fixed)