After working as a photojournalist for over twenty years (the last eight at the Monitor), I have decided to pursue my dream of teaching. I have left the Monitor, and starting this fall, will be an instructor at The Hallmark Institute of Photography in western Massachusetts.

Authoring this blog for the last two years has been a joy. Big thanks to my cyber readers for their support and encouragement.

Just days after leaving the Monitor and days before moving, I took pictures with a throwaway camera at my kids' gymnastics show. (As a dad, I rarely pull out my big pro gear, unless it's to let my kids take some pictures.)

A mom was watching her kid work the beams and parallel bars. Knowing of my career change, she noted the camera I was using and quipped something like:  "That's the technology you are going to be teaching?"

"A camera is just a box," I answered. And pointing at my head, I said, "It's all about vision."

I hope to blog again in the future. To be in the loop, shoot me an e-mail. 

Given the unpredictable nature of assignments, I don't always get home on time for dinner with the family.  But it is my goal.

Sometimes I feel squeezed between my professional and familial roles.  Such was the case when, homeward bound after an assignment, I saw this snack-time scene on a golf course.  Do I have time to stop and shoot?  Hmm ... the light is awful nice ...  but the kids are waiting.  What if there is traffic?  Oh, what the heck.

I slapped a 2x teleconverter on my camera, followed by a telephoto zoom.  I shot quickly, under the watchful eye of the adult bird on the left, and then made it home on time!

The modern marathon runner needs a mess of accoutrement to compete.

Along with this sneaker, I photographed a pedometer, a belt to hold bottles of energy fluid, and organic electrolyte chews.  The art director's vision for the layout called for the items to be floating in the text, so I isolated the sneaker's outline to facilitate stripping out the background.

For historical contrast I went to the Boston Athletic Association.  There I found a gem: The 99-cent sneakers worn by Johnny Miles when he set a world record in the 1926 Boston Marathon. 

Out of its display case – and backed by a white cloth I brought with me – one of the pair sits on a teleconverter from my camera bag.  I carefully tied the laces to approximate my previous knot.

I faced multiple restrictions on photography, including placing a filter over my flash to protect art, when I recently photographed a curator at the Isabella Stewart Gardener Museum.  So I was delighted and amazed when I was allowed to handle the historic sneakers.

I spent a recent evening at the Bangor airport photographing the Maine Troop Greeters.  These volunteers meet troops - en route to, or returning from, Iraq - with handshakes, hugs, and words of encouragement.  For this shot, I walked along with members of the US Army as they strode between rows of greeters.

The hardy greeters have been on self-appointed duty since May 2003, welcoming over 1,400 flights ferrying some 260,000 troops.  They have a room stocked with candy, cookies, and cellphones for the troops to use to make free calls. 

I often write about connections, but this shoot left me vaguely discomfited.  Unlike many of the greeters, I am not a veteran.  Speaking to soldiers bound for Iraq, I found it hard to fathom their professed nonchalance.  Marine Sgt. Jerry Bray (above, left) and Cpl. Jamar Washington spoke to their wives.  Corporal Washington told me that leaving for Iraq this second time was not as hard as the first, and that God had more ways in store for him to grow.  I had vocabulary issues, as I kept saying "trip" instead of "tour," when asking about sojourns to Iraq. 

However, what a compelling intersection of stories:  the anytime-of-day-or-night troop greeters welcoming soldiers facing the consequences of war, whether going home or into battle.

These wartime strands meshed as Sharon Stephens, of the Air National Guard, spoke with her husband.  Bound for Iraq, she became emotional telling him about the warm welcome her unit received from the Maine Troop Greeters. 

Taking pictures of ordinary things makes life richer for me.  A simple trip to drop off library books can thus become an epic event.  On a recent light-snow dawn, I photographed these tracks, before making my own.

I puzzled over who would drive on the sidewalk.  Then, noticing the fresh newspapers reflected in the library's door, I guessed a hurried delivery person.

A fellow book-returner probably left the boot tracks.

A gull hovering at 30 feet in a frigid breeze drops a clam before swooping down to eat its meal on the cracked shell.  This ancient ritual takes place as I pull into the parking lot at Wellfleet Harbor on Cape Cod. 

Bundled up against wind, water, and bitter cold, aquaculture shellfish farmers work against the incoming tide, harvesting oysters and clams.  Bob Mallory (above, right) heads to his truck with a basket of fresh littleneck clams.  "I'd talk to you," he told me, "but I don't have much time."

Across the Cape, Les Hemmila navigates through the bays in Osterville to access his deep-water oyster beds.  The skiff he pilots pounds through the chop.  Mr. Hemmila harvests year round, sometimes donning a hooded dry suit, mask and snorkel before plunging into wintry waters.  He no longer dives in icy conditions:  “I had a sheet of ice go over my head, and it was too hairy.” 

Hemmila carries a basket of littlenecks in his left hand.  His gear kept him dry; skiff spray soaked my legs.  As he packed up, I got colder and colder, wondering how long before hypothermia would set in.  (A change of clothes, fortunately, waited in my car).

The self-portrait is a genre practiced by many artists.  The portrayal of self can take many forms.  With photography, mirrors can play a role, as can the photographer's shadow.  As a photojournalist, I try to avoid such obvious traces of myself in images.

Shooting into the sun while photographing the Desert Storm Veterans Memorial bridge in Bridgewater, Mass., I held out my hand to minimize lens flare.  Just for fun, I snapped this image that includes my hand.  A self-portrait of sorts.

The next day I photographed Alicia Genna (left) and Eric Baumann (right) leaving a Best Buy in Boston clutching their highly prized Xbox video games, as a bystander looked on.  The two "investors" waited in line all night in the rain to buy the season's hottest item in order to sell it on eBay.

Mr. Baumann was happy about his purchase, but I think he smiled broadly because I took repeated pictures as he walked out of the store.  Ms. Genna was focused on me.  The commotion captured a passersby's interest.  My flash brightly reflected off of the store's doorframe.  Could this be a self-portrait, too? 

On a balmy November afternoon before sunset, I arrived at Revere Beach, just north of Boston, in search of people enjoying the reprieve from fall frosts.  Perfect! I found boys skim boarding.

Jonathan Smith - with a buddy's shadow on his board - has a 'skim book' in which he logs the days he throws the board out in the waves and then hops on, hoping for an ocean glide.  He last skimmed on October 16; he skims daily in the summer.

Revere Beach made history when established in 1895 as the first public beach in the US.  My own history has spiraled through these sands.  As a high school senior in the 1970s, I visited the beach during a February snowstorm (below).

Since 1951 Kelly's Roast Beef has served sandwiches and seafood at Revere Beach.  In the 1980s, on glorious summer days that demanded nonwork activities, I would call a fellow freelance photographer and shout into the phone "Kell-eeees!" (our code word to meet and eat fried shrimp).  In the 1990s, I met a friend - who lives on the peninsula beneath the rising moon (center photo) - for a heart-to-heart talk as I grieved a deep loss.  What will the next decade bring?

I was going to lead off this blog by opining: "Though these disparate groups of women are from stations in life that are worlds apart, golf unites them...."

Thankfully emerging from this smothering cliché, I thought:  “What a way to focus on differences, rather than similarities.”  How about: "Two groups of women, both facing barriers to career advancement, head to the golf course to enhance their employment opportunities."

Golf is one of the many extracurricular activities offered at The Care Center in Holyoke, Mass., where low-income pregnant and parenting teens earn their GEDs.  Fashioned after the learning rich environments of college prep schools, the program works:  85 percent of the students who earn their GEDs go on to college.

For female Harvard MBA students, learning how play golf at Stow Acres Country Club, in Stow, Mass., was seen a way to thwart exclusion from informal networking environments - golf is No. 1 - that are key to building business relationships.

And the old boys: 

I love history.

Here’s a look at the side of a railroad bridge that goes over a canal in Bellows Falls, Vt.   I took this shot as I lined up angles to photograph trains going through a tunnel beneath the town.  Jammed with brick mill buildings, Bellows Falls sits on the Connecticut River.

Near the tracks leading to the tunnel, I struck up a conversation with Leonarda Ostrowski, strolling her granddaughter Justine in a baby jogger.  An immigrant born in the Ukraine, Ms. Ostrowski arrived in Bellows Falls in 1965.   She vividly recalls her first train trip in 1939, as a 10-year-old girl from a tiny rural village:   “Something like going into space today,” Ostrowski told me in accented English.  Only the rich owned cars, she continued, and “many people afraid when see train.”

Ostrowski later wheeled Justine past The Green Mountain Flyer, its antique cars filling up with eager tourists.   One of the engineers told me that this was the first train ride for quite a few of his passengers.

As I said, I love history.  Trains, utilitarian during Ostrowski’s childhood, have become a tourist experience.  The canal, originally built to transport goods, has morphed into a fishway for salmon trying to navigate the dam-strewn Connecticut.

With their kids in tow, Raymond and Tabitha Gendreau, along with other employees from Otis Air  Base, rallied against the planned shut down of their workplace.  The rally was prior to testimony by the Massachusetts congressional delegation at the Base Realignment and Closure Commission hearings, held July 7th at the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center.

This is the photo you would expect.  What would you think about the event if you saw only this one?

Two-year-old Leesha, in Dad's arms, had just shouted "yeah" when the speaker from the podium mentioned firefighters.  She brought the house down.

Senator Ted Kennedy then fired up the crowed.  He infused hope with references to the Red Sox being down by three games against the Yankees and prevailing.

I wondered how he still does it.  Maybe like the Rolling Stones giving life to "Jumping Jack Flash" for the 3,000th time.

Governor Mitt Romney looked positively presidential.

Later, at the hearings, I struggled with telling the story with one image, given the distance between the supplicant elected officials and the commissioners.  I decided to risk censure and got on stage behind the panel.

I shot a series of "Hail Mary" photos, as I held my camera at arms length above my head and prayed that the scene would be framed correctly.  A digital camera aids this process, as the instant feedback helps refine camera position.  Hardly an unobtrusive venture.  Eventually, an organizer let me know it was time to get off stage.

What to bring to work:  bathing suit, sunscreen and sandals. 

Given it was the the third day of a heat wave, I figured I might be assigned to catch the steaminess.  And if you want to get a good picture of water activity, whether a turtle or a river activist, you need to get in the water yourself!  My editor emerged from the morning planning meeting and said:  "Suit up."

The challenge was trying to find people swimming in nearby Boston harbor before my deadline of 10 a.m.  I found Nicholas Heafey and his brother Joseph scouting for sea creatures.  "We're looking for shrimp, crabs, anything!"

As I sat on bench and transmitted a picture, I noticed some boys had set up shop and were handing out cups of water to road-race participants.  Runners doused their heads.  When the word came from my editor that the beach looked too empty, I suggested I shoot the sweaty runners.  Twenty minutes later he had this page one photo of Dawn Mampreian, running in the 22nd annual POW-MIA Race for Freedom.

Kevin Driscoll (green shirt) and his cousin Steve Driscoll (orange), are great-nephews of Maureen Dunn.  Ms. Dunn started the POW-MIA Eternal Flame Foundation to raise awareness about POWs and troops missing in action, like her husband, Navy Commander Joseph Dunn.

Poking around the Cambridge (Mass.) Common, before the start of the Memorial Day parade,  I came across the Cambridge Militia, polishing their full-scale reproduction of a cannon just like the rebels used in 1775.  Commander Ted Connolly explained that lighting the powder in the touchhole ignites the cannon's charge.

I noted that the edges of the touchhole, a small depression on the top of the cannon, formed a heart.  "They did have a sense of humor 200 years ago," remarked Mr. Connolly. 

Today, his militia fires big blasts on Memorial Day, Independence Day and Veterans Day.  The 'People's Republic of Cambridge' allocates $275 for the powder, chuckled the commander, from its "defense" budget.

I was photographing Army Reservists who marched in the parade for a story gauging the nation's wartime attitude towards troops. I got a nice little workout, since after stopping to take shots of onlookers, I had to run to catch up with the soldiers.

Members of the Reserve distributed little flags to spectators along the route.  Nine-month-old Joshua Hamilton tasted one.  Asked about his attire, his mom said:  "His dad is very patriotic. We're very patriotic."

With the chants of affordable-housing advocates echoing in my thoughts, I sped along Interstate 95 back to Boston.  The barren post-construction median strip of the highway was littered with bushes and trees sitting above ground with rootballs exposed, waiting to be planted.

"That's great," I thought, "after tearing up the earth, they are planting some trees."  But then my thoughts returned to the People to End Homelessness, who had demonstrated at the State House in Providence, Rhode Island.  How can you tell someone without a home that planting a tree along a highway is more important than their having a place to live?

Outside the State House, after delivering written pleas urging increased appropriations for supportive housing - a program that combines support services with permanent housing - the activists finished up their action with a unity clap.

"It's a tradition we learned from the Chicano movement in the Southwest,"  Duff Morton later told me via e-mail. "The sound symbolizes the heartbeat of the group when the group is acting together."

I recently covered a confrontaton (see immediately below this post) between white supremacists and counter demonstrators.  A reader who attended the event, e-mailed to say that I did not indicate that Max Waldroop had been hit in the eye with a police baton, and that he was crying because of his injury.

Furthermore, the reader noted, photographing from the teenager's right side did not show the blood trickling down his face.  The conclusion was that my editing - of information and photo angle - allowed me to fit Mr. Waldroop into the role of "teary teenager" to make a point, and was therefore irresponsible journalism.

Here's my thinking:  Here at the Monitor, we shy away from sensational images of blood and gore.  So I framed the image as I did because I knew that we would not publish the bloody photo.

The first pictures I took of Waldroop shouting and crying were just after the riot cops initially moved in to protect the White Revolutionists.  It was a rough moment - I was nearly knocked to the ground. Going by the time embedded in my digital images, this happened at 1:45pm

At 2:00 pm, I snapped a picture of Waldroop, appearing calm and pensive.  About a minute later, I took the picture of Waldroop (see above) that I posted on my blog.  I was moved by the depth of Waldroop's emotion, which I interpreted to transcend any physical pain.  I felt his expression symbolized the intensity of the event.

I was trying to make a point about protected speech, and had to focus my observations. However, the reader makes a valid observation.  Waldroop told me that he had been hit by a cop, although I had not seen the event.  Omitting this information was a distortion.

It was a rough transition from vacation.  I had just spent four days in the Berkshires at Kripalu, seeking inner peace on a yoga and meditation retreat, and the first day back on the job was confrontation city. 

Inside Boston's Faneuil Hall, holocaust survivors, Governor Romney, and other officials commemorated the holocaust.  Outside, backed by bricked history and under the gaze of Samuel Adams, a coalition of anarchists, labor unions, anti-war groups, and socialists created a racket protesting the planned arrival of white supremacists.

Like rebels during the revolutionary war, these anti-Nazis had a system of intelligence and scouts, monitoring the movements of their adversaries.

Up the street, members of the White Revolution geared up to march.  Once underway, they were encircled by riot police.  Mounted officers kept the counter demonstrators at bay, preventing violence.  15-year-old Max Waldroop, wearing a yarmulke and shouting about concentration camps, liberally shed tears.

Once in their heavily protected pen, the White Revolutionists traded taunts with the anti-Nazis.  Billy Roper, their leader, used his constitutional right of free speech to brandish provocative signs and  rub a piece of ham on an Israeli Flag.

At one point, the mounted police moved in formation against the counter demonstrators.  A man next to me shouted into his cell phone, "I'm right here and there's a riot going on."  A cop hit my knee with his baton to move me back.

Despite the jarring scene, some of my vacation's serenity clung to me.  I tried to stay in the moment, occasionally concentrating my attention on a single individual, and wondering what was it about their life experiences that brought them to this moment, whether a teary teenager, a stoic riot policeman, or a tattooed White Revolutionist.

After photographing the start of a meditation class at Northeastern University in Boston, Mass., for a story on students and spirituality, I put my cameras down, turned off my cell phone, sat down, crossed my legs, and joined in.

Meditation for me is quieting my mind by focusing on the sensation of my breath entering and exiting my body.  When my mind strays, as it often does - to what's next on the schedule, errands to run, what so-and-so said - I gently return to the focus on my breath.  Try it.  It's hard work.

Sitting in the Sacred Space at Northeastern, my thoughts veered toward criticizing my just concluded photo shoot, as the voice of my creative censor started chattering.  "You did not get close enough to the meditators, like your buddy Mark Peterson would have."   Back to the breath.  "But his dynamic style can be less than flattering," I countered.  "Yeah, but his photos have more impact that yours,"  kept up the relentless naysayer.   Back to the breath. "You should have highlighted the serene expressions and the room." Back to the breath.

Then finally, "THAT'S NOT WHAT I DO, NOT HOW I SHOOT", I shot back my internal critic. I realized that I needed to stop comparing my style with others. To just shoot my own stuff.  And then I felt peace in my heart.

Several years ago I was on a wild ride between three New England states, carrying out three different assignments in one day, and needing to transmit some of material back to the office to meet a deadline.  My middle stop was in Vermont, to photograph a teacher of peace and meditation, Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hanh, at one of his monasteries.  I had read many of his books and it was a treat to meet him.

They invited me to stay and have a silent, meditative meal with them, but I had to transmit my photos and get to my next shoot.  "Stay for lunch, and everything will work out," said one nun.  "Tell that to my editor," I replied.  However, I stayed, and learned a great deal about mindful living.

Then, trying to use one of the monastery's phone lines, and having problems connecting,  I was getting more and more stressed out, worrying about getting to my final shoot before daylight faded. I said to one of the monks, "I just realized that 80% of my life is insane."  He did not reply, but his expression indicated that he was not going to argue with me.

Hours later, as dusk approached, I screeched into a buffalo rancher's place in New Hampshire.  Great, deep dark animals stood out against a sharply contrasting layer of snow on the ground.  I groaned.  But we hiked to an upper pasture, and just then, a shaft of sun pierced the trees.

Maybe the monks are onto something.

On my way to assignments I am always on the lookout for images. Such was the case in Providence, RI, where half sun-drenched/half shadowed rows of concrete columns edging a parking garage beckoned me, as did a street cleaner clad in yellow, trundling along with his similarly hued trash bin. Though tasty, neither visual morsel seemed worth running late for, so I put them on the back burner.

Done with my shoot, back in the garage, I had time to revisit the columns that were situated near my 4th floor parking spot. I happened to glance down at the street. There was the sanitation worker! Bingo.

I thought I was done.

I had spent years photographing the Big Dig: a massive public works project that took an interstate highway that cut through Boston and put it in tunnels under the city.

However, the tunnels have developed leaks, one major breach and hundreds of minor seams. So I joined a group of other journalists and construction managers and headed down into the project in the middle of night when the tunnels are closed so the workers can work.

Some construction defects require concrete and steel patching. In other inaccessible locations, grout is injected into the walls to keep the water out. A white-suited technician prepared the grout in this heated, mobile, grout-mixing unit. Via hoses, the grout is pumped up to injection crews working in the ceiling.

Up in the roof of the tunnel, leak-sealer Pat Joyce, worked on a leak. It's a cramped business.

At the end of a bay between girders, engineer John Rich described a leak in the wall. He told me how talented the leak sealers are - that pumping grout requires constant vigilance and the use of senses other than your eyes because you can't see what is going on inside the wall.

You need to listen for water or cracking, he explained. Also, you listen to the pump with your hands, noting that if the hose bulges or the pump's vibration level shifts, it may indicate that the hole is filled or a problem is developing.

Surely you don't use your sense of taste? Oh yes, he assured me. He tastes leaked water to determine its origin: seawater, for example, or deep groundwater.

Rich has spent years of his life underground and reminisces fondly about when construction was in full swing. Like giant hydraulic woodpeckers, hoe rammers removed unwanted concrete. Hi-voltage electric arcs cut off old steel. Generators generated. Cranes groaned.

“The sounds were dynamite,” says Rich, “like a big jam session.”

It was four a.m., and the tour was over, but I couldn't resist one last photo when the safety officer offered to take me out on The Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge.

Though I was on a media riser at the Capitol in Washington, DC, I did not take any pictures at the beginning of President Bush's inaugural speech. I was hunched over my laptop transmitting photos of the actual swearing-in ceremony that had begun at noon. My editor in Boston had a front page image in his production system at 12:13.

After his speech, the president (far left) and his family prayed during the benediction. Bush had sworn to uphold the constitution with his hand on a Bible. If a Muslim were elected, could they use a Koran?

The festivities continued into the evening. I donned a tux and headed off to the Independence Ball. No war-time skimping here.

The president and first lady bopped in and out in about ten minutes. A brief speech, an even-briefer dance, and then a wave to the adoring crowd. At the Constitution Ball, one of 10 that the president attended, Bush was quoted as saying that he looked forward to dancing with wife Laura, "maybe for the first time in four years."

Then a funk band took up its instruments and the place was hopping.

I walked a few blocks from the convention center to take in some counter-inaugural action. At the Platinum Nightclub, a satirical outfit, Billionaires for Bush, held their Re-Coronation Inaugural Ball. According to their press release: "Billionaires for Bush is a do-it-yourself street theater and media campaign to show how the Bush administration has favored the corporate elite at the expense of everyday Americans."

From the stage The Bobwhites led the crowd, costumed as Billionaires, in a chant of "Rich, white, and Republican." Note that the gal on the right wears a golden parachute. A tag on the front read: "Pull in case of unfavorable audit." Leaving the club, I noticed a non-Billionaire line of party-goers, primarily people of color, obviously headed for different party. I wonder what they made of the exuberant chant.

I caught the Metro back to the bureau to file my latest images. After at day that started at 6 am, subway passengers wearing tuxedos and furs did not seem overly surreal.

This elevated highway that cut through downtown Boston for several years no longer exists.  Replacing it with underground tunnels was a huge project:

I have documented this 'Big Dig' for years.  Here's an excerpt from a story I wrote in 2001 about one of the bridges under construction:

"Imagine the tangle of utility, sewer, and subway lines that lurk underneath one of the nation's oldest cities. Now visualize constructing eight to 10 lanes of underground highway through that mess. The subterranean roadway will dip beneath one subway line, go over another, and veer back down to connect with existing harbor tunnels before emerging onto two bridges that span the Charles River.

Seventeen million cubic yards of dirt will be dug to make room for the highway - hence the moniker 'Big Dig'.

Such a massive undertaking - touted by the project managers as 'the largest, most complex and technologically challenging highway project in American history' - with its huge cost overruns and ongoing delays, is an easy target for criticism."

Say what you want about burdening taxpayers, the The Big Dig is a photographer's visual feast.  And I love physical shoots: climbing up on concrete silos, taking in views from rooftops and clambering around on rebar.  I hiked up 22 stories of scaffolding to take this shot of the Leonard P. Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge.

Here's the reflection of the bridge in The Charles River.

I was so grateful for the lone worker (below).  He gave scale, energy, and focus to a complex and confusing scene.

One day on a site, I dropped my notebook in about three inches of mud.  As a laborer hosed it off, a foreman gave me - the hapless desk jockey -  endless grief.  His pièce de résistance:  "You go to school to learn how to do that?"  For weeks I fruitlessly thought of some snappy comeback.  Got any ideas? E-mail 'em to me!

The night was so frigid that my equipment radiated cold. And despite glove liners and gloves, as my fingers got stiffer and stiffer, it became harder and harder to adjust the controls on my camera and tripod.

A steady stream of cars made their way up and down Rockvale Road here in Tewksbury, Mass., enjoying this lavishly decorated neighborhood. The cocked head of the reindeer makes me believe that it shares my astonishment not just with the glowing wonderland, but also with the effort, expense and obsession of the homeowner across the way. However, kids hopped out of cars to pop money in the glittering palace's roadside donation box, the funds earmarked for The Sun Santa Fund, a local newspaper's holiday charity.

It was a blustery and cold morning. I was clambering about the
Beaver II, at the Gloucester (Mass.) Maritime Heritage Center, as shipwrights went about restoring the craft. When their work is done, the ship will once again be used as part of The Boston Tea Party Ship and Museum in Boston.

A couple hours in a steam box makes a plank pliable enough to bend and twist into place.

A little coal tar linseed oil helps a spike to penetrate hardwood timber.

They invited me to join them for coffee. I followed them into the Mug Up Shop. Waterfront workers have used this shack for coffee breaks since the first quarter of the last century. Today it also serves as a dive museum – masks and wetsuits are everywhere. There is a palpable maritime funk in the air.

I was obviously an outsider, not even a coffee drinker, and efforts by both sides at small talk petered out. Eventually they forgot about me and dove into their usual banter. The topics ranged from the pitfalls of rigid curriculums in schools to pirates.

Doug Parsons (above) and John Hinckley (below) were both born in Gloucester.

The colonists welcomed pirates, said one shipwright, because the colonists wanted the goods that the pirates had stolen. Today's pirates wear suits, are legal, and have lawyers to protect them, added another.

Back out in the yard, out in the elements, away from the steamed-up coziness of the Mug Up Shop, I shared my gratitude to be out of the office on assignment, with Nate Piper. He was using an adze - an axe-like trimming tool - to smooth a timber on the ship's hull. I’ve never worked in an office, he told me.

To begin with, he's in a full wet suit, and I'm up to my thighs in the Charles River, in Dover, Mass., wearing boots and chinos. Then, crouching down low to get close to environmentalist Christopher Swain and the water's surface, I had just dipped my elbow in, wetting my shirt. "That's a good sign," I cracked, knowing that the closer to the river and my subject I got, the more intimate the photo would be. I was not particularly concerned since I had a change of clothes in the car. Plus, my boots had traces of manure on them from the farm where I documented cows bound for Cuba, so I was looking for an opportunity to clean them.

After Swain headed off on his day's swim to draw attention to the need to clean up the river, I ran around to get up on the bridge to photograph him down river. A cluster of bicyclists stopped on the bridge peppered me with questions about the swimmer's sojourn. One looked at my soaked legs and commented: "Looks like you got a new water sport there."

Having covered so many campaign events, I need to subdue the fog of my jadedness and kick myself to keep shooting around the edges, to not be lulled by a campaign's programmed photo op. I tried to get an unstaged shot of John Edwards before he appeared on the manicured set in a Manchester, New Hampshire park, but aides holding huge Kerry-Edwards signs kept moving in concert with me to block my view.

Across the street, before this tit-for-tat action, a Bush-Cheney operative appeared giddy with the amount of press her band of Veterans for Bush received. Korea vet, Navy Seabee John Burger, referring to the Edwards event, told me: "We went over there (Korea) so those guys can burn the flag across the street."

Another day, wandering away from the bright lights at a John Kerry town hall event at a Hampton, New Hampshire high shool, I found Jennifer D'Onofrio, ticket in hand (but denied entry to due a capacity crowd) straining to hear the candidate's message.

He had the look and cadence of a street preacher, but I got close enough to see that he was reading the poet Shelley rather than scripture. I was pressed for time and he seemed uninterruptable, so I never found out what his aims were. Most of the Kerry supporters filing out of the event assumed he was preaching. One offered "Another Christian for Kerry." Another hurled abuse: "Too bad your mother wasn't pro-choice."

I was off to catch Kerry at the Portsmouth airport. Before boarding the plane, the candidate strode off talking with a supporter. He ended up in a hanger, earnestly and knowledgeably discussing the fine points of a Czech propeller plane with mechanic Bryan Frobese. Was he trying to curry the man's vote? Was he really sincerely interested in this luxury toy? Or by making a connection aside from a scripted event, does a candidate fill his energy reserves?

As Kerry bounded off to greet a cluster of supporters at the airport fence, a gaggle of media followed him. Weeks later, watching a similar swarm trying to keep up with jubliant Red Sox players, my profession was put in sharp relief. I told my wife: "I'm glad I'm sitting here on the couch, eating chips."

The supporters at the fence had not been summoned by the campaign, they just showed up. A family vacationing in Maine and local mother of two, found their way to Port City Air. Jazzed by their brush with the candidate, Marilyn Briere (far right) said: "He's for the little people, that's why he came over to us."

I like the picture because it feels real, no manufactured throngs with printed signs. Corinne Norris(waving and videotaping), mother of Nicholas and Mitchell, later e-mailed me: "I was thrilled to have had the forethought to visit the airport that afternoon to catch a glimpse of Kerry's plane. As a family, I felt we were part of history in the making."

My mission was to capture the colors of fall for our front page. My purposeful meandering led me to Sholan Farms, bought by The City of Leominster, Mass., to prevent the development of 150 single-family homes.

Volunteers like Emile Brosseau keep Sholan Farms going.

One of eleven children, Emile has lived in Leominster all of his 90 years. Retiring in 1975 after 46 years at DuPont, he worked growing strawberries and then blueberries before becoming an apple expert. He once picked 1,600 quarts of blueberries in 22 days. Munching a fresh Rome apple while driving to photograph pumpkins, I mused that I am often assigned to photograph notable people. But I savor chance encounters with generous spirits like Emile, whose story I find quite remarkable.

The Walsh family buys pumpkins at Pine Tree Farms in Concord, Mass. Across the highway, gleaming condos have cropped up on former farmland.

Waiting is a part of my job, whether for a shift in light or for a time-pressed politician to show. On the tarmac in Manchester, New Hampshire, a quirky quartet waited for John Edwards to board his plane: A secret service agent explained that the backpacks the agents carry are filled with water and Power Bars. A Kerry/Edwards press gal divulged the satisfaction she feels when an event looks beautiful. I recalled photographing Gary Hart shaking hands in the frigid pre-dawn outside a shipyard. Magazine photographer Rick Friedman, who has covered every campaign since Jimmy Carter ran, had us in stitches with tales of campaign-trail snafus.

Finally the candidate arrived, confidently mounted the steps and waved to the press. After the photo-op, agents and ground personnel waited for the plane to take off.

While in Vermont photographing a story about politics and culture, I met composer Dennis Bathory-Kitsz.

Now in his fifth decade of composing, Bathory-Kitsz draws inspiration from the contours of the landscape near his house. He even incorporated bird songs into one piece. When the piece was performed in upstate New York, a flock of real birds joined in. This was a peak moment for Bathory-Kitsz, who can rebut doubters: "I've got tapes," he said.

Natural beauty fires up my creative energy, too, as does music. I once attended a concert by the Keith Jarret Trio and was stunned by the soulful spareness of their sound. Weeks later, I tried to emulate those qualities in this image of butterfly weed in my backyard.

After marking a position on the camera riser in the high school gym where President Bush was to hold an "Ask President Bush" campaign event in Nashua, New Hampshire, I had several hours on my hands while secret service agents and their dogs swept the building. Chris Shelsky, along with hundreds of other Bush fans, waited in the broiling sun for the doors to open.

I asked him what the world would look like without any liberals. “It’s hard to imagine,” he replied, “ that’s why it’s on the shirt.”

A few feet away, young Republicans played a raucous game of “Catch Phrase.” The children, both biological and adopted from Haiti, are members of the Schmidt and O’Lone families

A secret service agent kept an eye on things. He had an easy smile when he told me that he could not tell me his name. He had an easy smile when he told me that he was doing “general observation.” And an easy smile when he told me that I was in a restricted area, and that I had to leave.

Last spring I tromped through Keown Orchards, in Sutton, Mass., following Artie Keown III as he used a harrow to prepare a field for planting. Today, blooming flowers fill the field. Artie's great-grandfather opened the farm as a peach and apple orchard in 1924. To stay profitable, acres of orchards have been cut down, replaced by market vegetables and flowers. While facing severe pressure by land-hungry home developers, the remaining Massachusetts farmers benefit by the proximity of large populations to sell their wares directly. "There are fewer of us, but we are more productive," says Keown.

Three months later, I photographed Rosa Cooper buying potatoes at a farmers' market in Boston. Now a senior citizen, Ms. Cooper was raised on a farm and helped her parents with the farmwork when she was a child.

I love farmers' markets. The fresh and vital food. The grateful and knowledgeable consumers. My brother and his wife are farmers in Pennsylvania. My sister-in-law could a fill a book with behind-the-scenes tales from her farmers' market in Williamsport.

I like images that have layers of meaning. The way the beautiful morning light can be interpreted as tempering the gravity of the situation. I did not talk with this man, so as a journalist I can't say he is homeless, but it sure looks that way. Hard to imagine getting comfy on a park bench. Is this picture exploitative? Maybe. Will it raise consciousness about those at the margins? Maybe. Done photographing, I gently (so as to not disturb his rest) placed a dollar bill on the man's suitcase pillow.

During the Democratic National Convention in Boston, I was on the day shift. Sunday morning, the day before the convention, I was assigned to shoot last-minute preparations at the Fleet Center, but everything was already ready!

I then headed over to the Public Garden, hoping to find delegates riding the Swan Boats. While I sat on bench and fruitlessly waited, I snapped this shot of a boat not yet pressed into service. I was fascinated by the "No Trepassing" sign: Who made it? Who ties it on each evening? Is there a special knot? Is it effective?

All the Democratic stars were in town. This young woman beams after former President Bill Clinton shook her hand and signed her copy of his book, My Life, at the Barnes and Noble bookstore in Boston. She waits for one of Clinton's staff to hand her the signed book.

As the first national political convention post 9/11, security measures were heavy. State troopers stopped and searched trucks heading into Boston. Given the constitutional hoopla about random bag searches of passengers riding on Boston's subway, I wondered why I had not heard any concerns raised about these highway stoppings.

A cage-like designated protest area was set up across from the convention site. Many protest groups were outraged by the degrading conditions. I covered some anti-abortion folks protesting the pen on the basis that it restricted their right to free expression. Putting up a banner that read: "Pens are for animals not Americans," the demonstrators wore gags symbolizing the silencing of dissent. This right-of-free-spech stance humanized a group with which I had felt no previous connection. Moving past an ideological stereotype, I felt some kinship.

For convention week, Boston was nearly empty save for delegates, media and others flocking to the convention for exposure. Dummies sat in the back of this convertible. Kerry is partially visible behind the Bushes. In the front seat, a man wears a Bill Clinton mask. He handed out a card that said: "Want to cast a ballot for your favorite dummy? Register to vote." A non-partisan voter registration effort.

Our Washington bureau chief Dave Cook brought his breakfast gatherings of journalists and newsmakers to Boston for the duration of the convention. John Kerry's daughters Vanessa and Alexandra wowed the crowd with their grace and forthrightness. A reporter asked how they felt about their personal lives coming under media scrutiny, including their former boyfriends. How would you feel?

Media trainer Lorna Virgili (right) gives feedback to Kip Patrick, who works in public relations and was in Boston volunteering for the Louisiana Delegation. "Remember to give them the ten-second sound bite," she told him. "You edit, not me, the reporter." The seminar was part of a series of workshops held by Democratic Gain (Grassroots Action Institute and Network), training Democrats in everything from how to be interviewed by the media to voter registration.

Over at the Fleet Center, the pros were at work. CNN's Wolf Blitzer (left) interviewed hip-hop mogul Russell Simmons on the floor of the Democratic National Convention. "Hip-hop mogul." Could there exist a hipper title?

Looking for a vantage point to set a socially responsible bank in the context of its Main Street location in Brattleboro, Vermont, I wound up in building across the street. Since a fire decades ago, only pigeons have inhabited this former apartment.

The third floor view of the bank was underwhelming, but fascinated by the decrepitness and decay, I lingered, awash in unknown memories, capturing the beauty of fading color. I then set off to photograph team-building in the woods. Still in a meditative mood as I donned my boots (that are always in my car, ready to go), I mused that dirt from my shoot in the urban tunnels of Boston's Big Dig construction project still clung to the soles. And then I realized that I must have left traces of Central Massachusetts farm mud in those concrete tunnels. Doorways, pathways, each step leaves an impression, and takes some history with it.

I have empathy for a movie star or book author who spends weeks in hotels across the country facing a new reporter and photographer every thirty minutes. But what about me, periodically schlepping over to the Ritz in Boston, Mass., portable lighting equipment in tow, for my 5 minutes of face time? (The other 25 go to the interviewer). It's one thing to take a portrait where someone works or lives - but a faceless hotel function room. Yikes. Here's what I've done.

Oscar winning star of The Pianist, Adrien Brody stayed in character, moody and morose. His mom, Sylvia Plachy, is a photographer whose style I admire, and my enthusiasm for her work broke the ice. He absolutely refused to pose at a piano, so I placed him next to a mirror and asked him to do something with his hands.

Actress Diane Lane, of Under the Tuscan Sun fame, was obviously expert at posing, but I wondered what she really looked like. Allaying her makeup artist's fears made the shoot tricky. The background was sun streaming through conference room curtains.

Author John Irving set the tone for our session by saying: My first wife was a photographer, so I don't have a lot of patience for this. I posed him in the hall leading to a restaurant.

In Waltham, Mass., documenting the surging popularity of minimotorbikes, I met a face I had to capture. It was an afternoon on a school day, and East Coast Industries, a retail shop for minibikes, was hopping. Chatting with customers about the gleaming machines, mechanic Mike Diesi, the store's fix-it man, easily cracked a grin. "I love these things," he said. "I've got three of them."

Five years ago I wrote a story about the Blackstone River Valley, noting how the birthplace of the industrial revolution in America was rebounding after the decline of its mill towns. Today in the scenic river valley, development pressures force farmers to decide whether to grow crops or houses. This icon of eras-gone-by in Sutton, Massachusetts remains, swathed in nostalgic beauty and creeping brush. Just down the street from the Motor-In, an 820,000 square foot mall with a 14 room cineplex nears completion. The drive-in theater's slowly enlarging cracks map these currents of change.