My husband and I took a trip to Turkey Point Light this past weekend to get some shots of the picturesque little lighthouse that's situated there. All week long, I'd been meaning to go after work thinking that maybe I could get a shot at sunset, but something always came up, whether it was weather or time constrictions. And finally, on Sunday, I got to go with my husband and George.
This is Turkey Point Light and it sits atop a 100-foot cliff at the headwaters of the Chesapeake Bay where the Elk and the North East Rivers converge. It also has the distinction of being the home of the last female lighthouse keeper in the country. Fannie Mae Salter served from the year 1925 when she took over the duties upon the death of her husband and continued until her retirement in 1947. Today the light is maintained by Turkey Point Lightstation, Inc. who have plans to reconstruct the keeper's quarters, turning the ground floor into a museum.
I took a lot of shots this weekend. The sky was a deep blue and the lighthouse was bright white in the sun, but as I went through the photographs of everything I'd shot, I just couldn't help but feel bored. Blah blah blah. Same old lighthouse photos, nothing spectacular, and as my husband would say, "it's just another day".
But then I started using some actions on them and some texture overlays and suddenly, I was liking what I was seeing. Maybe you don't, but really I do.
For these shots, I used Pioneer Woman's Seventies action, which I've been into lately for some reason, so please bear with me in yet another stage of my life. I also applied a single different texture to each photo, using two in the last photo.
And then I played with George who is now in his customary position on the floor at my feet. And it is good.
This just in: Pay It Forward contest going on now over at Mindwhispering's Photography. She's giving away a set of her beautiful notecards. You've got to be willing to pay it forward if you win. Contest on until Feb. 25. Stop by and tell her I said hi.
Until tomorrow, my friends . . .