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All that Glitters

“Autumn, the years last,loveliest smile”—William Cullen Bryant

After my mother died (what a dire way to begin a post) my father did what many fathers do. He gave me my mother‘s jewelry. It wasn’t a lot of jewelry and much of it was costume jewelry. But there were a few pieces that were real gold, real gems. And one of them was her wedding ring. I had always loved my mother’s wedding ring. It was a gold band, but deeply engraved all the way around. I loved it so much that when I chose my engagement ring, it was because it reminded me of my mother‘s wedding band. So when my father gave it to me, I slipped it on almost immediately onto my finger right above my wedding band and engagement ring. I wore it there for 30 years until the man who gave me my engagement ring upped the ante. And on our 40th anniversary he gave me an entire new wedding set. I then put the ring into my jewelry box where it remained just a few years. And then one day, my daughter, by now, engaged and ready to be married herself, asked if she could have my mother‘s wedding band as her wedding band. I of course said yes, immediately so happy that this beloved daughter would be wearing the wedding band that first my mother had worn for over 50 years, and then then I had worn for 30 years. A talisman of the grandmother she had never met.

A few days ago, while out on an early morning walk, I saw a familiar site on the damp sidewalk in front of my home. Gold. When we moved into this house almost 40 years ago, there was a new tree planted in front. It was just a sapling. I couldn’t tell you what kind of tree it was, it was just new. Now all these years later, it is taller than the roof of my house, And every year it drops its leaves ,of course, in fall. Small always, yellow golden leaves scattered there on the sidewalk creating a golden path in front of my home. I’ve taken a lot of photos of this tree, usually through an upstairs window that peeks out at the top of the tree that fills with gold on sun lit mornings. For a tree that was ignored in its infancy, I’ve become obsessed with it in its middle age. And more recently I started taking pictures of our golden retriever on the same golden path.

Murphy, was the fourth golden retriever that has belonged in my house,in our family, and in my heart. He arrived here somewhere around five years old, a rescue after the hurricane that hit Puerto Rico. He followed, Bella, Yankee, and Kalahan into our lives. He died in February this year. And as fall begins its colorful entrance I realize that this the longest period of time that we have not had a golden in our home since 1985. And I don’t like it.

Now I know there are people who are not that interested in jewelry, costume jewelry, or fine jewelry. They’re just not that interested. They may even think it’s silly or foolish or too expensive no matter what the cost. They don’t/won’t wear it they may say. Well, that’s a whole other discussion which will also involve “good” china. But I digress.

So my perspective is a little different. You see, I believe that wedding ring connects the women who have worn it, to each other in a meaningful way. It tells the story of weddings and marriages. It connected me to my mother every time someone said to me, “ What a beautiful ring.” because I could say “Thank you, it was my mother’s.” And in that moment I could think of her. And yes of course, she often told me her favorite season was fall. And yes, fall is my favorite season too.

So when I ventured out on a sunny not quite fall morning and I saw that golden pathway, I thought of my beautiful golden escorts who are no longer with me. And the sun and the leaves reminded me of those fluffy lovable creatures. And that’s a good memory and a good thing too.

And when I wear my mother’s gold locket (in which she had placed a two photos one each of my husband and me) I think of her, and that’s a good memory and a good thing too.

Both of these two formulas prove, to me at least, the rule.

It seems that all that glitters is truly gold.

I’m just say’n.

Murphy on a fall morning

Decoration Day

My mother was old school. Every year when Memorial Day came around she would say that that it was formerly called Decoration Day. The day when Americans would decorate the graves of the country’s fallen soldiers. At some point it was renamed Memorial Day and has slowly morphed into the unofficial beginning of summer, a three day weekend for many, the day when wearing white shoes and pants is fashionably correct.

Here where I live, nestled along the shore of Lake Michigan in our urban city park, there was an annual kite festival during the Memorial Day weekend. The park was full of families, friend groups and others flying colorful kites. There was music and laughter under a beautiful blue sky.

A short walk to another part of the park someone had remembered it was also Decoration Day.

There at the foot of the Vietnam War Memorial, volunteers had placed American flags. One flag for each of the Wisconsin war dead in every conflict beginning with the Civil War, fluttered in the breeze.

I passed the flags of those lost in the Vietnam war. It had colored so much of my childhood and teenage years. I immediately thought of the young solder who died, the family member of one of my best friends. Tears unexpectedly came for a young man I never met.

I continued around the display. Flags for the fallen from two world wars, the Gulf War, the Civil War (the most costly in our history) and even a marker for those lives lost in peace time (623) decorating the expanse of green.

I stopped at the marker for the Korean War. I had been three years old when we took my father to the airport. I had no idea why. But I remember his mother quietly crying into her handkerchief and my own mother holding back tears as we watched him walk toward the aircraft. My dad was career military, and he was bound for Korea. But I also remember a Christmas Day some months later. My father came home. Here a marker in the Milwaukee sun informed me that 801 sons, husbands and fathers did not return to their loved ones.

So on this Memorial Day I’ll be thinking of those two sights. Laughing happy people flying kites and picnicking on a beautiful May day. And nearby the flags decorating the same park in memory of those who died making the laughter and fun possible.

Decoration Day indeed.

I’m just say’n

It’s the comments

My preferred form of communication is letter writing. But I realize that I’m swimming upstream on this point. These days, the most common form of written communication I share with friends and family, is through social media. And with the ending of one year and the bare beginning of a new year, I’ve been thinking about the messages and notes I’ve received through this cyber post. Especially those messages that appear in my social media feed under the heading “memories” from the past it’s in these sometimes silly rarely serious past posts that I review the messages and comments made made by those folks who had something funny to add, or agreed with an idea, shared in the post or even sometimes passed on a lovely compliment. (I must add here that most compliments were about the handsome face of my golden retriever.)

I have been on Facebook for over 20 years that’s four golden retrievers ago and even more hairstyles. And over that time I reconnected with hometown high school friends, members of my church community, members of Civic organizations, and even my own family as well as neighbors.

I joined the platform about the same time that young people started to flee when baby boomers like me started to activate pages. We were filling our posts with pictures of our kid’s, youth soccer games, little league, new grandchildren, and pet pictures. The younger generation fled in horror and migrated to other platforms.

So I’ve seen my share of change in the sometimes aging profile photos of people I’ve known since I was nine years old. I’ve learned about their children’s weddings, the birth of their grandchildren, the loss of their own parents, many of whom I grew up, knowing.

But interestingly, as in all social media, the gold is in the comments. And these days I’ve been nostalgic and reminiscing and a little sad when the comments of these old friends come over the Internet from the grave.

I’m sure I never thought when I made that first post that the people who would read it and send me good wishes, congratulations, or thumbs up, would someday be only a memory, a social media memory, that bring me back to a day when a college friend or childhood chum reached out. I never contemplated that someday that friend would no longer be able to wish me a cyber happy birthday.

I know there is much negativity in social media, that it can be a black hole that chews up too much time and yes, disinformation has also found a home here.

But I will keep on checking my notifications for comments and birthday wishes, and giggles because for me, they are just as valuable as a stack of letters, tied up with a ribbon and kept in a drawer. They are there to reread and remember the college roommate, the fellow RA, the neighbor who became so much more than a neighbor, and those others who took time to write something in the comment bubble to me.

I’m just say’n.

Crying time (revisited)

I think I need a new toaster. All good things come to an end, or more specifically all appliances big and small are only temporary possessions for us all. And I have already written that I get a little nostalgic when it happens. Sometimes, even little misty.

I’ve been married for 45 years, so the breakdown for toaster life in my household seems to be somewhere between 20 and 20+ years. A pretty good investment I would say.

My first toaster was a wedding gift. I grew up in a small town, returned there from college to have a small town wedding. I registered at the wonderful and beautiful Marshall Fields, in the Big City on State Street in Chicago, and at my local hardware store. I told you—I was from a small town.

The toaster came from the hardware store. I’ve since forgotten who the lovely gift giver was, but the toaster as swell as it was, was just a two slicer. You could only toast two slices of toast at a time. And at the ripe age of 22. I believed that any toaster worth having, must have four slice capability. So before my husband and I set off for his graduate school and my new big life in another midwest state, we stopped at the hardware store and swapped out our two slice toaster for a fabulous four slice toaster. It lasted in our household at least 20 years. At which time I bought another slightly more upscale, from a gourmet kitchen shop, four slice toaster. And as I look at it this morning, I think it’s time has come and gone.

So I’m not complaining about the longevity of toasters. Although I will add a footnote that for as long as my mother had a toaster, she had the same one.
But this is a blog about crying and I am definitely not crying about a toaster.


This past summer, our daughter was married. (By some quirk of genetics, she prefers a toaster oven. I don’t know how this aberration happened.)
And since we’re talking about crying, it’s important to know that, I have always been a big cryer at weddings. I can almost always feel tears well up in my eyes at specific points of weddings. When the bride walks down the aisle, especially if I’m good friends with the bride side of the family. I better have tissues handy. But I also got a little misty eyed when our own godson danced with his mother at his wedding. A beautiful solo at a church wedding can also call tears to my eyes. But then again, a favorite hymn at a Sunday service can also bring the tears. So in my family I am famously a crier.


As we were prepping for the wedding, no one I knew asked me if I would cry at the wedding. They probably just assumed I would at some point. There were many comments made about the fact that my husband, the bride’s father, would be sure to cry. The question was would he cry when he took advantage of the new tradition, of the First Look look for dad? Or would we see tears fall from his Irish eyes as he brought his daughter down the aisle?
Well, we’re talking about crying. I’ll add this, I love it when other people cry at weddings. I love it when a maid of honor becomes verklempt as her best friend takes her marriage vows. I love it when the bride gets misty, and has trouble saying her vows, and the maid of honor, hands her a tissue or handkerchief. I think it’s one of the things that make weddings so special. It’s just great all that crying. All that emotion. All that love revealed for everybody to see. So yes, crying at weddings I’m totally for it.
So I guess you’re wondering when I did my crying at the wedding?
Well, nothing is sure in life, except that nothing is sure in life.

This summer, when my husband entered the special room to see his one and only daughter in her beautiful bridal finery, he shed not a tear. A fact I still can’t get over. And we have the photographic proof to prove this as well. There is a picture of my daughter, looking at her dad with her hand on her hip. In my mind I think she’s saying “well, what’s up Dad?” because she didn’t see any tears.
As the wedding party lined up in the vestibule behind, closed doors, waiting for our entrance, I had no idea whether or not I would cry.
The string quartet was in the choir loft of the beautiful old downtown church. And when they began playin “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” the officiants walked down the aisle. And after a dramatic pause, the mother of the bride, (that would be me!) walked down the aisle.
The wedding was beautiful as I believe all weddings are. And my handkerchief stayed clean and dry in my special mother of the bride purse.

It’s been more than six months since the big shindig. And recently I was in my kitchen doing something quite kitchen-y I’m sure. I was listening while I worked, to the playlist I had created of the music that my daughter and I selected for the string quartet to play for the wedding ceremony. It was a combination repertoire of a millennial’s , favorite tunes (Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Coldplay) interspersed with classics suggested by the mother of the bride. Bach, Beethoven and a touch of the Beatles filled the air with music in the one hundred year old church on that lovely wedding day.
And as I made soup or spaghetti or wiped down the counters in my sunny kitchen, the bridal processional tune my daughter had selected played on the kitchen Alexa; Only Fools Rush In.

And I cried.

Photo credit, Heather Cook Elliot Photography

What We Keep, Chapter Two

High above my kitchen sink, on a decorative shelf is an old metal toy train car. It was a gift. It’s not very pretty. It was found abandoned in an old sand box. But the little girl who gave it to me was so proud to present it to me so I put it up on the shelf. Years passed and whenever she would enter my kitchen she would always point it out. Almost always saying “I can’t believe you still have it.”

This past summer we hosted a Fourth of July brunch in our back yard. As I have at numerous other summer gatherings, I used three old table cloths on the picnic tables. I guess you would call them vintage. They were the simple cotton cloths that my mother used. White squares with colorful designs printed on them. Blue, banners and red flowers, and one with a sunny map of Arizona. They are of course showing their age. But I think they look so cheerful that I always bring them to our outside parties.

And now it is winter time and I have been thinking of my mother’s tablecloths and that little toy train. My mother died 30 years ago, in December a few days before her Christmastime birthday.

The little girl with the train, all grown up and married, did not see this past Christmas either. She died in the fall several weeks before her fortieth birthday.

So I am thinking again about those things we keep. The things that inextricably find themselves connected to memories sometimes good, sometimes sad, but our memories non the less.

Recently, I asked some friends if they had any keepsakes without obvious financial value, and if so, what were they? I found that their treasures had much in common with my tablecloths.

I was interested to find that there were overlaps in some of the keepsakes. I’m not the only one who has kept the final drivers license of a late parent. And there were birth certificates, love letters, and even the hunting license of a 15 year old boy who would grow up to be the father of six daughters.

As we make our way through life there are those things we cannot avoid. The old adage about death and taxes as inevitable misses the mark on what truly matters. Memories, and the things inexplicably tied to them, those are the truly unavoidable things in life. And if we are very lucky, the old tablecloths, toys, and licenses will become talismans to sweet memories. Perhaps these things will prompt a smile albeit with a tear or a tightening in our throat.

I’ll continue to use the old cotton tablecloths on summer tables. The old metal train car will remain on display in my kitchen. They connect me to those I have loved who are lost to me now…..but not forgotten.

I’m just say’n.

The Window Over the Sink

The day was gray as I stood at the sink, spring was tying to make a real appearance but the clouds were working against it.  And then in the still bare shrubbery lining the back yard, the flutter of wings, the flash of scarlet, a cardinal. I paused to watch, wondering if I could catch a picture, but the bird soon dipped and hopped branch to branch before finally taking flight and making an exit.

The window over the kitchen sink, is there a more valued window in the  entire house?  Perhaps you enjoy the view from a large bay in your living room, or the shady opening into an old oak tree from a bedroom window. Or maybe your home boasts an actual sunroom. Windows all around with a wide view of your yard, a ravine, a lake, the world. But for me the views that have entranced me are the ones I’ve seen through the glass over my kitchen sink. While getting a glass of water or washing dishes, or once upon a time bathing a baby, the things I’ve seen from the kitchen window are an album of memories to me.

What sort of pictures were displayed there?  Well, I’ve watched  four different golden retrievers saunter in the sun, chase bunnies, and warn away birds high upon the telephone  wire. And Kalahan, our first golden, well he viewed the yard as his kingdom and those kids in the wading pool his charges. So he would keep a watchful eye, giving a short bark if things got too rowdy. And then at nap time when the kids were inside for the afternoon, he’d step carefully into the pool for a relaxing cooling soak.

Once upon  a time the view from the window had a wooden play set. For a while it had one of those baby holding bucket swings where the youngest  were pushed and swung until graduating to a regular swing. The sandbox was covered by a platform called “the fort.”  It was up high enough to feel almost like a tree house, and   I watched summertime lunches enjoyed there.

Back yard parties, Fourth of July gatherings, children’ s birthday parties, water balloon fights, piñatas raining candy on laughing kids, snowmen and snowball fights all  part of the movie of our family’s life as seen through the kitchen window.

And now the pool is gone, replaced by a patio that I fill with potted  flowers  in the summer and a glider bench for reading. The swing set has migrated to two different  back yards now, and this year’s golden has the yard to himself.  But I still watch the yard for stories.

Not long after the death of one of our dearest  friends, I looked up from the dishes and thought I saw him tending my flowers in the fancy planter he had given me. Pinching the spent blossoms as he so often did when ever he stopped by. It was his habit, rather than knocking at the door, to just walk into the backyard and begin tweaking the garden when he arrived for a visit or dinner. This has happened several times to me. Seeing my old friend there among my flowers though the kitchen window is a pleasant sight.

Now a days it is a commonly held Facebook trope that a cardinal sighting is a message of comfort from someone we’ve lost. It’s not one I have given much thought.  But that day with  Easter and spring both pushing  us further into the surreal calendar that is  2020, I remember the trope and wonder.  Is the cardinal my friend, one of my parents, or even one of those other three goldens, waving to me on the wings of the bird?  A feathered mesenger letting me know that all will be well  that this time of quarantine and virus will pass . It’s a puzzle for me as I stand by the sink on a gray day in April.

I’m just say’n.

 

 

 

All the Broken Pieces

B0A667A3-3427-47C2-9CCB-69261C81498C     This Christmas post began as last Christmas passed by, it’s pieces stiching themselves together during Easter. And now as  this  Christmas receeds it is a story, I hope, to finally do justice to.

Last year my friend died. It was unexpected and very sad, as losing a friend always is. She slipped away shortly after Christmas while sleeping. The new year found her family and friends full of sadness over the loss, and the knowledge that her final years had been difficult and often sad. And though many of her last conversations and texts to me were optimistically looking forward to the new year, I  knew she would have to work to right the ship of her life. Unfortunately,  her time would run out before she could.

     After her passing her husband and son, graciously offered her beautiful dining room set to my son and son-in-law. It was one of her pride and joys, exemplifying her sense of style and design.  My son accepted the gift, and I was touched to think that when I would sit at my son’s holiday meals it would be at my dear friend’s table. I found the idea comforting.

     But when we went to pick up the table and chairs we soon discovered a major problem. Under neath  where the legs  attached to the table top, it was broken. Snapped off and unusable. It was probably broken  by the furniture movers during  her final move.  I was so sad by this turn of events, mostly because this last link to my friend was now gone.

 “Could it be fixed?” her husband asked me when I reported what we had found. “Probably, but we do  not have the skill set or the tools,”  I told him.  My son, knowing intuitively that it wasn’t about the table, held my hand while tears leaked from my eyes as I explained the problem.  We locked the apartment and left.

Later I spoke by phone to her very best friend about the table. The table, I said, was the perfect sad metaphor for our friend’s  last few years of  life.  Balanced and looking steady ready for a holiday meal. But really, underneath, broken and unable to be used. We both pondered the table and the loss of our friend.

A few days later,however, our friend’s husband again contacted me. He had a friend, a cabinet maker who had offered to repair the table. My son would indeed have holiday meals at the table of our friend.

You would  think that this would end the story for me. But it didn’t. And although the table was in fact repaired and delivered to my son, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The broken table, my friend’s illness and sickness–  brokenness.

Which bring me to Easter. It was Ash Wednesday and I was at church helping to serve communion. As I stood on the steps of in front of the communion table holding the chalice of wine I  looked at the members as they took communion.  One man grieving the loss of his brother, a woman, her head covered in a scarf after her recent cancer treatment, and the others, whose stories I didn’t know, all approached me to receive communion. And then it came to me, or perhaps I heard it.  Clearly, in a voice not my own but in my own head.  “We are all broken.”

It’s not the first time, that something had dawned on me with the surety of the word epiphany. But it was surprising none the less. I left church that night with much to think about.

And now It is Christmas once again. The post that has rolled around in my head since last Easter is finally ready to be released.

We are all broken.  My  friend’s passing last Christmas would not be the only loss for me this year, as Fall saw another friend pass away. You may have had to say farewell to loved ones too this year.

We are all broken.

Several months into Spring, my friend’s husband brought me a few  more momentos of his wife.  Some favorite cookbooks, and a small Christmas teapot.

He enclosed a note to explain the condition of the teapot. You see, it had been broken and repaired. A small chip on the top under the cover had been glued together “by the big clumsy oaf who broke it” , as described by his wife, he wrote.

We are all broken.

Perhaps we are all broken, by loss, by life, by illness, physical or emotional. But this year has also shown me how sometimes we can be mended. Perhaps it is another friend or a child who holds our hand, maybe it is taking part in a worship service, or reading the cookbook of an old friend that can help us move on.  Or maybe it is someone with tools and the skill set we do not have who can help.

This year many of us have experienced brokeness. Maybe many of us have been the hand that helps as well.

I’m just say’n.

 

“Come and gather around the table
In  the spirit of family and friends
And we’ll all join hands and remember this moment.
“Til the season comes ’round again.
May the new year be blessed
With good tidings
Til the next time I see you again
If we must say goodbye
Let the spirit go with you
And we’ll love and and we’ll laugh
In the time that we had
Til the season comes ’round again.”

 

‘Til the Season Comes Round Again

songwriters, John Jarvis, Randy Goodrum

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turn, Turn, Turn

The college freshmen walked toward the student union to check in. She was excitedly focused on what was in front of her when she heard her name called from behind. It was her mother. “I didn’t get to hug you good bye.” The freshmen was startled, she gave the obligatory hug and continued on her way. The mother returned to her car at the curb, and she and the father drove away.

This morning on my walk my neighborhood was full of moms and dads taking first day of school pictures of kids. The children smiled at the camera, depending on their age, with big excited grins or embarrassed “can we get this over with” grimaces. There were no pictures at my house for the first time in 20 years.

This morning I ran into my daughter’s , now retired, kindergarten teacher in Starbucks. She asked if I noticed all the little ones lining up for school. I told her I had dropped my little one off at college yesterday. She clutched her heart.”How was that for you?” “It feels worse today.” I replied. She shared a memory of my daughter from all those years ago. I remembered how much my daughter loved K4 and this teacher. I remembered how I had tried to talk her pre-school teachers out of advancing her to kindergarten. “She could stay, but she’d have to co-teach the class,” they laughingly told me.

I know that this next phase of our lives will be just great. But right now I’m feeling nostalgic for hands to hold and parent teacher meetings. I know I’m not alone. If you’ve ever dropped your oldest off at college you understand. If you’ve dropped your youngest off at college you feel my pain.

I know what I need to focus on are the blessings this day represents. Two healthy, mostly happy kids who worked hard to get themselves into college. Two young adults starting the next phase of their young lives. The boy I dropped off at the university 6 years ago is on his own now, a college graduate. He’s a different person than the boy who asked us as we prepared our exit, “You mean you’re leaving now?” His little sister and I had made his dorm bed and hung his clothes. His father laughingly said “Yes, we won’t be staying at college with you.”

I can only wonder at the growth and changes that the little sister will experience during her college years.

I’m not the first parent to realize that everything we do as parents to love and nurture our children is to get them ready for this day.

My husband was only half joking when he shared his thoughts to a young neighbor mom. Her little darling in the pixie bob with the almond eyes, a beautiful gift from China. She showed us her little pink glittery shoes and and told us how kindergarten started next week. “You ‘ll love them so much, buy them hundreds of shoes, and then they’ll leave you.” he predicted. And in the end that’s what happens.

But it’s a wonderful journey. One I’m sure we would never want to miss. And It’s timeless. It will be repeated next fall with others, by  this year’s high school seniors. And 18 years from now by the moms pushing the buggies down my street today. You see the clueless freshmen who forgot to hug her mother was me. I never dreamed I’d be in my mother’s  shoes one day. Sad, happy and grabbing one more hug from a girl focused on what was in front of her.

I’m just say’n.

Good Day, Sunshine

I was waiting for a sunrise.  From the moment I entered the bedroom of our vacation rental and saw the east facing, lake-viewing balcony, I knew I would be waking up early one morning to capture a sunrise snapshot.  But the best laid plans as the saying goes, did not take into account my catching the dreaded summer cold.  And each morning when the lake loon cried out to the rising sun, my congested head stayed on my pillow.

Summer is the season we Midwesterners dream of through long icy winters and teasing glimpses of spring. Some even decline to enjoy our beautiful autumns by mourning summer’s end. There is so much to love about summer. For me, it’s the little moments of enjoyment. Sipping brewed ice tea I’ve  blended. Watching kids on bikes with tennis rackets or baseball bats heading to the school yards. Murphy, my golden and I wear matching smiles on our morning walks. Smelling the grass and flowers, feeling the breeze as we survey the lake on our walks.

It has been a long time since I felt compelled to walk to the lake to catch the early morning show. A lot of summer memories had been made since I had. Making real lemonade with my daughter, encouraging sprinkler fun as a win/win to my son. Fun for him, watered grass for me. Watching the kids play tee/soft/base ball on  summer evening. Enjoying it more than they probably ever did. Hot dogs on the grill. The delicious smell of a neighbor’s dinner grilling while on our evening walk.  And yes, even the music of the ice cream truck driving around the neighborhood. (I must confess I told my oldest it was just a music truck, and would bring him in the house to avoid the dinner spoiling treats. Imagine my well acted surprise when he informed me, around age 4, that the music truck also sold ice cream! Remarkable! Who Knew? I know, evil mom.)

So on this week-long vacation, at the up north location where we had spent so many happy times with our kiddos I wanted to watch a sunrise. This vacation, sans children was relaxing, and lovely. But, each day reminded me of each time we had all been together, scratching bug bites, riding bikes, and eating ice-cream.  So, on the last morning of the trip, when the loon’s call startled me from sleep I followed up on my plan.  I  tossed  on a cardigan over my night-clothes, slipped on sandals, grabbed my phone and headed out.  The short path from our back door to the  to the small northern lake was rosy with early light. The sky held more clouds than ideal, but still presented itself well. I started snapping pictures hoping for the definitive shot. And then, well then, I turned the lens on myself, in all my sleepy-eyed, summer cold, madcap hair, glory and snapped. And then just sat. And watched. And listened. And experienced. And breathed in a less than perfect lakeside, summer sunrise.

Summer’s are never perfectly perfect. Too hot or too rainy, to cold or too busy too short or too boring. But they are some what divine. Because every year, they’re just what we need. I’m just say’n.