Reflections on the Third Week of Winter – Exposure with Frozen Bubbles

Frozen Bubble 1b

    When sunshine poured through the sliding glass doors two days after Christmas, I rushed to the weather station on the kitchen wall. Yes! The outside temperature had risen to 10º F (-12º C). Warm enough to freeze bubbles.

    Last winter, I’d pursued frozen bubbles when the temperature dropped into freezing bubble range. (See “Pursuing Frozen Bubbles” January 29, 2017 blog.) But solo bubble blowing and photographing netted a minuscule ratio of photos to blown bubbles.

    This year I’d increase my odds if I could convince my daughter Ellen and her husband Chris to blow while I took pictures. Ellen and Chris lounged with their backs resting against the arms at either end of the sofa and their feet entangled in the middle. In my cheery, elementary-teacher voice, I said, “Let’s go outside and blow bubbles.”

    The couple stared at each other with blank expressions before Ellen turned to me. “It’s cold outside.”

    “Exactly. Ten to sixteen degrees [10º F (-12º C) to 16º F (-9º C)] is the optimum range for freezing bubbles.”

Frozen Bubble 1d

    Her head swiveled to Chris and back to me. “I didn’t bring hiking boots.”

    “You can wear a pair of mine. Our feet are the same size.”

    She pushed off the sofa and pranced to the sliding glass door. “I can watch you from here!” She pointed outside.

    On the outside of the door, a chickadee peered at her finger, grabbed a sunflower seed from the feeder, and zoomed away.

    Spence poured a cup of coffee in the kitchen. “Put on your coat and go out with your mother.”

    Chris swung his feet to the floor. “I didn’t bring gloves.”

    Progress!

    “I’ve got extras,” I called over my shoulder on the way to the bedroom. I returned with extra gloves, the bubble formula container, and my camera.

    Chris reached for the mitten gloves. “These work for me.”

    With a sad smile, Ellen took the purple gloves.

   We bundled and stepped onto the porch.

    I handed the bubble container to Chris. “Blow bubbles onto the Christmas tree.”

    Chris tipped the eighth-full bubble container onto its side to load the bubble wand then blew. Bubbles floated a foot and burst. He loaded the wand again but didn’t blow. “The liquid has to cool down before blowing, or it will break.” After holding the wand still for ten seconds, he blew. The liquid burst on the wand. “Okay. That was too long. The liquid froze.” Chris dipped again, waited five seconds, and blew.

    Bubbles floated to the live Fraser fir and popped on its sharp needles.

    We moved to the deck.

    A pair of chickadees flapped off the feeder and scolded us from the old pine stand.

    Chris blew.

Frozen Bubble 2a - Reflecting the Sliding Glass Door and Deck Shelves

    Bubbles encircled Ellen. She grinned and stuffed her gloved hands into her coat pockets.

    I needed a stationary bubble so I could focus on crystal formation. “Can you blow the bubbles onto the wisteria vines?”

    Chris dipped the wand again. “I can’t control the wind.”

    No bubbles landed on the vines so I swung the camera, to match bubble flight paths, and snapped photos.

    After fifteen minutes, Chris handed the bubble container to Ellen. “My fingers are too cold.” He flipped the mitten covers over his bare fingertips.

    With gloved hands, Ellen dipped the wand, waited a moment, and blew. No bubbles.

    “You played the flute.” Chris put his hand on her back. “Blow like you’re playing the flute.”

    Ellen readied the wand and blew. More than a dozen bubbles soared, and I pressed the shutter release.

    Dip. Bloooow. Release.

    Dip. Bloooow. Release.

    Dip. Bloooow. Release.

    With matching amused expressions, Ellen and Chris followed bubbles with their eyes.

   I shivered.

    Chris patted my shoulder. “Time to go inside.”

    Ellen screwed the cap on the bubble container, opened the door, and waited beside me while I pulled off my boots and coat. Then, she took my hand and led me to the wood stove. “Stay here until you’re warm.” She rubbed my arms, tilted her head, and flashed an impish, full dimple grin.

    Later, I sorted through the one hundred digital photos I’d taken. No pictures of crystals growing on a perched bubble. But I’d captured something better–a photographic record of a frigid adventure with Ellen and Chris.

Frozen Bubbles 8a - Ellen Blowing