Long Shadows On The Lawn

My "Oasis of Time" up here on the hill is winding down, and I'll be back in the madness of China in just over a week. I'll be glad to be back with Chris, but it will be hard to say good-bye to the peace and beauty of life here, especially as the days grow longer, the sun grows warmer and the shadows stretch further across the grass in the early evening.

When I was in film school, they taught us about a perfect time of day to shoot film called the Golden Hour. It lasts just about 60 minutes every evening, usually less, and occurs right before dusk, most noticeably at the end of long sunny days. It's a moment, hanging between the brilliance of the afternoon and the haziness of evening, when the light suddenly takes on a golden hue, capturing the last vestiges of sunlight before descending into dusk. Cinematographers and photographers love the Golden Hour; perhaps in the world of film, the term also derives its name from every precious minute that stands to be lost if a shot can't be captured in time!

Mark Rydell's film On Golden Pond captures the essence of the Golden Hour perfectly. Drawing parallels between the precious light at the end of day and the fleeting passage of time Henry Fonda's character feels in his golden years, the film is a remarkable example of Golden Hour cinematography. Many of the film's most poignant and moving scenes are shot in the late afternoon across the waters of Golden Pond, a fictitious setting located in the Adirondack Mountains just east of Corning. The light is very similar here, and although I'm a far cry from the brilliant cinematographers capturing Golden Hours for Hollywood films, you can just get a glimpse of the golden hues here, as the blue sky fades into white and the sun drops behind the trees.

These ancient sentinels stand on our front lawn, ushering in each new season, weathering the storms like veterans with a strong and steady calm that comes with the wisdom of age. I have no idea how old they are, but perhaps they, like Henry's character in the film, are in their golden years. Our house was built in 1958, and I imagine they've been standing right along side ever since. They may lose a branch now and again to the snow and ice of Corning's winters, but they return every year, resiliently springing to life with a new burst of green, bringing shade to the lawn and a home to every imaginable type of wildlife.

Time is quickly jettisoning me into the Golden Hour of my time here in Corning this month, but I still have a few more golden evenings to enjoy and many more to look forward to this summer. In the meantime, I'm reassured that these venerable old trees will stand guard over our home until we return, waking up from their winter sleep and greeting every day with outstretched arms. They're not at all deterred by the changing weather; in fact, they're reveling in the warmth of Spring, and as the days draw more slowly to a close and the sunlight lingers longer behind the trees, I'm certain they'll still reach out to us every evening, even while we're away, quietly whispering goodnight with their sprawling branches and their long shadows on the lawn.