Being bored while our ginger Neko explored the apartment building courtyard late afternoon, I pulled out Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra and turned it to some of the fortnight lilies lounging in the center space. The Featured Image and companion are among a total of seven captures.
Vitals: f/2.2, ISO 50, 1/240 sec, 13mm (film equivalent); 4:59 p.m. PDT. The other is same but 1/300 sec, one-minute earlier. Both photos are composed as shot and straight from the smartphone; no edits.
The parrots sure are squawking this week, typically starting in the hours following sunrise and again before sunset. The closest coastal community to University Heights is 12 kilometers (7.5 miles)—less as the bird flies; Ocean Beach is better known habitat for the exotic fliers, so their presence is surprising but definitely welcome.
Late last month, I felt quite lucky to get photos of the birds on a neighbor’s roof. Today, a parrot pair presented in a palm that I happened to be nearby and angled into the morning sun. I pulled out Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra, set the camera to 10x zoom, and started shooting. The Featured Image and companions are the result.
Four years ago, I shared with you shots of lively lilacs along a wall here in my San Diego neighborhood of University Heights. What those photos lacked was context, which the Featured Image gives quite dramatically.
This afternoon, while talking to one of my sisters by phone, I came upon a young woman shooting photos of something behind me. I turned to see. Lilacs. Sis loves lilacs. So I pulled out Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra, pointed, clicked, and texted. She was delighted.
Among the many benefits of Leica Q2, or any camera from the series, are dedicated manual focus and macro modes—activated by turning dedicated rings around the lens barrel. I used the latter feature when taking the Featured Image and companion, which were close-cropped in post-production.
I captured the pair yesterday. Vitals, aperture manually set for both: f/4, ISO 100, 1/1250 sec, 28mm; 4:27 p.m. PDT. The second is the same but 1/1600 sec, two minutes later.
During the SARS-CoV-2 (severe acute respiratory syndrome Coronavirus 2)/COVID-19 lockdowns, my wife and I let expire our membership to San Diego Zoo. Reason: Hefty price increases.
For example, we paid $112 annually for a residential 2-adult pass six years ago, with no blackout dates. I grumbled when the price jumped to $149. In 2024, one-forty-nine is the cost for one adult membership, with blackout dates. Meaning: Twice as much, with restrictions, compared to five years ago. Ah, yeah.
The Featured Image is a memory marker. I shall explain. The grass on this property is rarely overgrown like this. But the woman responsible for tending things has lost the privilege of doing so. For reasons of protected privacy, I choose not to show the building.
One of my neighbors is in the process of losing her home. Supposedly she will be duly compensated, but what she wants is to stay in the neighborhood she knows and loves, living out her life in a house her grandmother once owned.
What a Leap Day treat: Two of the squawkers that flap around the neighborhood perched atop the building next door. I pulled out Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra and captured the Featured Image and companion. Both are pseudo-10x zoom; the camera combines 5x-optical lens and digital wizardry to mimic what the S23 Ultra could achieve totally optically.
Vitals: f/3.4, ISO 32, 1/320 sec, (synthetic) 230mm (digital and optical zoom); 5:10 p.m. PST, today. The other is same but 1/310 sec. Both photos are composed as shot. I must admit that the 10x renders are as good as or better than what would come from Galaxy S23 Ultra.
On the second—and last—day visiting Dad, he asked my sister to take out scraps for the birds. She put them beside the building just below the big windows looking out onto the backyard. She calls the room, where his little dogs like to sun, the Solarium.
During the course of the afternoon, I observed birds and several red squirrels come by for grab-and-go snacks. The glass was clean enough that I could shoot through the window, using Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra. The Featured Image sets the mood for the set. Look sharp for the red squirrel. Vitals: f/3.4, ISO 32, 1/900 sec, (synthetic) 230mm (digital and optical zoom); 1:58 p.m. EST, Feb. 18, 2024.
My hometown of Caribou, Maine averages about 279 cm (110 inches) of snow per season, which typically spans from mid-November to late April. But October isn’t too early or May too late for a dusting or meaningful accumulation. Depending on your measure of cold and snow, winter is as long as six months.
But 2023-24 is anything but typical. Snowfall is significantly below normal. According to outdoor enthusiast site Snoflo: “Snowpack levels across the state are currently 35 percent of normal. The deepest snowpack in Maine was last observed at Caribou Wfo [Weather Forecast office] with a snowpack depth of 7 inches [17.8 cm], about 35 percent of normal when compared to it’s 20 inches [51 cm] average depth for this time of year”.
While walking along Madison, just into North Park, my wife pointed out what looked like a branch placed atop a street-sweeping sign, today. She thought kids, then changed her mind on further investigation. A tree had grown up the metal post and come out on the back side.
This was a resilient, living thing—and another example of how conducive is San Diego’s year-round summer climate and fertile soil to growing seemingly anything at any time.
Torrential rains fall this evening across San Diego County. Officials warn of flooding that will rival or exceed last month’s storm surge. When I checked the forecast before bed, last night, showers would start around 3 a.m. and increase throughout the day.
But the low pressure area either slowed or stalled, allowing my wife and I to walk about 4.2 km (2.6 miles) roundtrip to The Hub in Hillcrest for on-sale tuna fish at Ralph’s supermarket. Light drizzle started minutes after we returned to our apartment. Lucky.
I love spiders. What can I say? No one can ever accuse me of killing one, unless by accident—and my rescues of nearly drowned or crushed spiders is legendary in the arachnid community. These eight-leggers know who is their human friend.
So I am surprised to discover the Featured Image, languishing unpublished. Yeah, yeah, the awards-givers won’t be banging on my door, holding trophies immortalizing this shot. But, hey, the thing looks suspended in air, and the photo is excellent smartphone showcase of past capabilities:;10 years ago (almost)—Oct. 11, 2014, using iPhone 6.