Why it's best not to be heavy-handed when it comes to digitally cropping photos

In the last year or so, I've taken on several different projects involving the scanning and digital restoration of family photos for others. Lately, I've been spending my efforts on our own family photos that my mom brought to be in neatly organized albums.

As I've completed small batches of photos, I've been uploading them to a common viewing area ("photostream" in the world of Apple) and all family members have been able to look at them on their iPhones and iPads as well as make comments. I've spent a few evenings this past couple of weeks laughing so hard I couldn't breathe because of the comments flying back and forth over select photos.

The above photo seems innocuous enough right? It's me on my 12th birthday right after the candles have been blown out. I'm guessing the bouquet of zinnias and bachelor buttons were freshly cut from a garden that I remember was burgeoning that year. It seems like just a typical birthday shot right before the cake is cut.

Don't be deceived.

The uncropped version of the photo looks like this...

That "monster" on the right is my four year old brother, photobombing the shot before "photobombing" was even a word.

As everyone in the family exchanged comments back and forth, my brother's comment on this photo was the best by far:

"I look shockingly like Lou Ferrigno in the Incredible Hulk, except I'm not green, have no muscles, and am slightly shorter than him in this pic... but other than that... dead on."

Let's see...

You know... he's right!!!

The moral of the story (there is one believe it or not)
In this world of easy digital editing...

Just in case you can't see the above photo... don’t be too quick to crop a photo. You could inadvertently be cropping out some of the best memories.

Snip and snails and... dragonfly tails. That's what little boys are made of (and some girls too)

I was sitting on my brother's couch when my 11-year-old nephew sidled up beside me. Calmly he said, "I found something really cool floating in the swimming pool... but you may not think it's cool..." his voice trailed off a bit.

"Really?" I asked with all sincerity. He had my full attention. Rarely does he deem anything as "cool" let alone "really cool", and I know if he does, it almost always involves some sort of wildlife (a boy after my own heart).

"What is it?" I asked inquisitively.

"I found a dragonfly floating in the deep end of the pool. It's this big," he indicated with his fingers a large find.

"Is it still alive?" I asked.

"Maybe... I don't know... probably not..." he replied.

"What color is it?" I was thoroughly intrigued both in the dragonfly he had found and the fact that this normally unassuming, quiet, and cerebral boy had initiated the conversation with me instead of the other way around.

"He's kinda brown," his eyes twinkled with the delight of a boy who has found someone who loves bugs as much as he does.

"Where is it? Your dragonfly is going to be the first thing I photography with something new I got!" I was already headed to my tote bag in the hall and talking over my shoulder.

It was he who was intrigued now. He followed me to my bag as I extracted my latest fun acquisition still in the unopened package. I had thrown it in "just in case" and, at this moment, I was so glad I did.

I showed him as I unpackaged it (dropping my iPhone in the process--good thing it was in a case) and explained, "This is an Olloclip. It clips onto my iPhone so I can take close-up macro photos of things that are small. I want to try it out on the dragonfly you found!"

I clipped the lens onto the corner of my iPhone over the top of the built-in lens, and he led me to the dragonfly that had been carefully and lovingly laid out on a paper towel by his mom (my sister) in a shoebox to make a safe journey home with them later in the day.

He stood and watched as I gingerly dragged the paper towel to get the perfect indirect light from the kitchen window and began shooting. I was amazed at the details I was catching--details my eyes couldn't see. We both ooo'ed and aah'ed with each capture. Pretty soon we had an audience as other family members wanted to know what all the excitement by the kitchen sink was about.

After I felt like I'd captured every angle, the dragonfly was placed reverently back into its shoebox. Neither he nor I were happy about the dragonfly's demise. We never said it, but we both knew the other was thinking it. Also unspoken, was the sentiment that somehow by appreciating the beauty of this fascinating creature and honoring it through careful study, it's untimely death wouldn't have been in vain.

We stood afterwards and carefully reviewed on the iPhone what the macro lens had seen that we could not--the tiny perfect serration on each wing-edge and the luminescent panes of gossamer film. It is moments like this that remind me to strive to always see the world the way a child sees it.

I am not affiliated with the company that produces the Olloclip or Apple that produces the iPhone. 
I was not compensated for anything written in this post in products, services or monetary funds.
I simply wrote about them because they are cool.

There is probably only one thing that can entice me away from spending time in my garden paradise

I love being in the garden. There is very little that can persuade me not to find an excuse to be out there. But there is one thing that will almost always lure me out of my serene little Eden--family history research.

I'm an avid family history researcher--a lover of history, old photographs and ephemera, and the possessor of an eye for deciphering cryptic handwriting and old newspaper print. I love piecing together a life story.

I suppose family history research is much like gardening. Every time I plant a seed in the ground it is a miracle to me that it grows into anything--let alone the beautiful flower or vegetable that it does. In family history research, I often start with just a grain of information. Sometimes only a name. It always amazes me when I am able to take that small seed of information and make it grow into the sketch of an individual's life.

There's another similarity between the garden and family history research...

The orange blossoms (featured here in the photos of this post) will need lots of cooperative effort provided by many insects and hummingbirds in order to pollinate them. That's the only way these blossoms will become the juicy oranges that I love to eat in the winter months.

Family history research is impossible without the collaborative effort of many individuals doing everything from preserving old documents to collecting the information into a usable set of searchable data online (and many other tasks in between). It is through those efforts that I am able to gather bits and pieces of information (much like a bee gathering pollen), compile the disparate pieces, and end up with rich and sweet life stories of individuals who have passed on.

And both my garden and my research bless my life in ways I cannot begin to enumerate. They are choice activities that bring me closer to my Maker more than any other I can think of.

Happiness is...

I draw a lot of inspiration from vintage art and photographic images of the past. My mother's family were early adopters of amateur photography back at the beginning of the 20th century, and I am fortunate to have digital copies of the hundreds of photos that have survived 100 years or more. As a kid, I would look through old photo albums as if they were picture books. I've been hooked for a long time.

Two subjects I am drawn to are my own Grammy (Little Elsie) and her baby brother, Jackie. The illustration piece above is directly inspired by them (see the reference photo I used below). There have been a few iterations of this illustration over the past couple of years as I've played with it and tweaked it trying to find the right look for the original pencil sketch I did in my sketchbook. This week, I think I finally found it with watercolors.

As I worked on this piece this week, I realized that a lot of things in this world have changed over the years, but it seems that the relationship between a big sister and her baby brother are still very much the same. Baby brother still disrupt photography sessions of all-girls birthday parties. And big sisters still love them despite their shenanigans.

"Happiness is being a big sister" is now available as
greeting cards, fine art prints, posters, and canvases by clicking here

Preserves

Some things are just meant to be preserved
Luscious juicy berries picked right out of the garden

Recipes on yellowed paper written in fountain pen
Memories of the women who wrote them

And Let Your Cry Be No Surrender...

If you will indulge me, please let me introduce you to my Irish-Scottish third great-grandfather, James Munce--a published poet in his homeland of Donaghadee in County Down, Ireland and later Glasgow in Scotland. I have recently become acquainted with one of his poems that has a repeating phrase in it which has become my personal mantra as I move forward in the face of the challenges of life. For me, the title of the poem should be "Let Your Cry Be No Surrender" but he chose the title "To A Melancholy Companion" probably because that was the original reason for the poem.

I shared this poem with my Auntie this week, and today I felt like I needed to share this poem here on the blog.

To A Melancholy Companion
by James Munce
copyright 1881

It’s cowardice to fear the world,
To dread its frown or court its favour;
Still act an honest manly part,
And shame it with your good behavior.
Keep in the path o’rectitude,
No matter how you may offend her,
With truth and honour on your side,
And let your cry be no surrender.

Let factions fight and bigots rail,
They’ll only have their day o’ power;
The empty titles here obtained
The teeth o’ time will soon devour;
Let all actions have a grace,
Approv’d of by your great Commander,
A harmless walk, a holy aim,
And let your cry be no surrender.

Tho’ care may sometimes cloud your brow,
Be not cast down or seem dejected;
The hand which holds the reins of State,
By it ye’ll always be protected.
With fearless spirit face the foe,
And bear the lash when Heaven sends her,
And from an honest noble deed
Still let your cry be no surrender.

Why should you murmur at your lot--
You cannot mend it by repining;
Although the cloud appeareth dark
It always has a silver lining.
In envy, malice, fraud, or filth
Let no such guests in you engender;
Forget, forgive, and onwards steer,
And let your cry be no surrender.

You may not aye hae cash tae spare
To help a friend who seeks to borrow,
But you can always sympathise
With friend or stranger when in sorrow.
Still act an open, manly part,
And scorn the name of false pretender;
Should faith or friendship seem to fail,
Then raise the cry of no surrender.

Let fortune frown and use her lash,
Try with a cheerful smile to mock it,
Still persevere ‘gainst wind and tide,
Altho’ you have empty pocket.
Still let your heart enjoy that peace,
The gift which Heaven alone can send her;
Should pride or passion interfere,
Then let your cry be no surrender.

And never try to rouse yourself
By pointing out another’s failing.
The weak, the weary, and oppress’d,
Give them what aid you’r fit to render;
Be generous even to a fault,
But let your cry be no surrender.

I fondly hope from this ye’ll see
The path you tread is one of folly,
At state or station to repine,
And wear a look of melancholy;
Forsake the path that hides your bliss,
Stand forward as your faith’s defender,
Maintain your ground and face the foe,
And let your cry be no surrender.

My dear blog friends... whatever your foe may be today, may you maintain your ground and let your cry be, "No Surrender!".

The Love Runs Deep (200th post)

I had already planned to write about these two photos today before I realized it would mark the milestone of being the 200th post. Now the post seems even more appropriate for the occasion.

The two photos I'm sharing in today's post are of my great-grandparents, El and Bill Munce. I am very fortunate to have hundreds of candid photos like this of them, their families, their outings, their lives, and their silliness.

These two particular photos are part of the early part of an antique album that is in the loving care of my aunt. The album spans the entire 16 years of their marriage (their marriage ended prematurely due to El's tragic death after the birth of their youngest son).

The photos were taken around 1910 here on the rolling hillsides of the San Francisco Bay Area with my great-grandparents' simple little portable camera of the time (hence the slight blur in the photo of El). If the photos were in color, the hills would probably be a lovely green because that's when the wildflowers that Bill and El were out hunting and picking would have been in bloom--probably sometime around March.

Bill was a lover of gardening, grafting, planting, growing, and roses. I love this photo of him with an armload of wildflowers. This is my kind of man. The photo of El with the armful of flowers seems expected, but not the one of Bill. It's literally a snapshot in time--a special moment between two young honeymooners captured in perpetuity. I can imagine them out as a couple traipsing these hills I love so much. I can imagine their excitement at taking the snapshots and then their anxious anticipation for when they would get the photos developed so they could relive the moment.

I'm glad they captured this moment. Somehow it gives me a sense of who I am. I feel a connection to them, to these hills, to the flowers. It all helps me feel grounded, rooted. My heart swells with a gratitude for the legacy they have left--a legacy of loving nature and gardens that has been passed down through their daughter to her daughter to me.

I garden in almost the same climate as my great-grandfather gardened in only a half-hour drive away from where he gardened. When I am out in my garden tending my fruit trees, pruning my roses, or tying up my climbing vegetables, I feel him near. I've seen so many photos of his garden, I know it is much like my own.

Thank you, Grandad, for being the man that you were. Thank you for loving all the things that I love, especially the roses. Thank you, Grandma El, for loving the flowers and for loving nature so much that you hiked the hills and valleys in those dresses you had to wear. And thank you, both, for loving each other as deeply as you did.

Click here to follow me on Twitter

Remembering...

On Monday morning my mom, Hubby, Chica, and I piled into my mom's Jeep to make the 3 1/2 hour trek north into the northern forests of California. There in a small tranquil valley named Indian Valley is the small town of Greenville. It's the town where my mom and her sisters grew up (the youngest was born there). It's the town where they all graduated from high school. It's the town where my Grammy served as a postal carrier for Indian Valley. And it's the town where my Grammy and Grampy's mortal coils are buried in Greenville Cemetery.

Why were we making this weekday trek to Greenville?

Both my mother and I are avid family history researchers, and in my mother's latest online research at USGenWeb she discovered that no one had transcribed the headstones and monuments of Greenville Cemetery although a lot of the other cemeteries in Plumas County have transcriptions available online. After contacting the USGenWeb coordinator for the county, my mother volunteered to take on the task. Hubby and I were her recruits to assist her in the task of writing down all the vital information on every headstone and grave in the cemetery. The three of us systematically spread out over the cemetery, and after a day and a half, we had completed the job.

The work of transcription in this cemetery was quiet work filled with the beauties of nature. The cemetery is spread across a hill under the sheltering limbs of beautiful evergreens and large decidous trees. The sun filters through the branches onto the cool green grass that surrounds the dignified headstones and monuments while summer bugs flit about on the cool mountain breezes. Robins, jays, juncos and other birds summering over in the mountains hunt for insects in the grass after it has been watered. Grey squirrels chase each other up and down the massive trunks that stand as pillars over the hill. One would not expect to find such beauty in a cemetery.

During our time there, I took the time to shoot some photographs to capture the essence of the tranquility and natural beauty that exist there. It is a very fitting setting for so many loved ones that are now at rest--many loved ones whom we knew and loved personally.

The older stone edifaces had such wonderful texture. The craftsmanship that went into decorating each monument was evident. Many over a hundred years old, were aged with moss. I couldn't help but see the beauty.

Fresh flowers, many probably cut from the town gardens in the valley below, graced numerous graves. Most of the cut lilac blooms had long since wilted, but the stalwart bearded iris blossoms continued to show their beauty. So many fresh flowers baskets and vases were throughout the cemetery, even on the oldest graves. Someone remembers them. And hopefully, after our transcriptions are added to the USGenWeb databases, many more will remember them again.

Triple Digit Day

On a day like today when the temperature climbs to 100 degrees in the shade, everything in the garden changes priorities. Instead of seeking the warmth of the sun, nature tries to seek relief from it. Birds and insects flit about looking for a water source to quench the thirst brought on by the dry baking oven air. Flowers seem jealous of the mobility of the birds and bugs, seeming to yearn for the freedom to seek cooler climes.

I do the same. I hibernate in the comfort of Rosehaven Cottage where we are blessed to have the relief of small air-conditioning units in windows to drive the heat out. I venture out only because my photographic eye sees the photographic possibilities out the large picture window in the living room. I can only stay out for 15 minutes or so and then I duck back in to the cool refreshment inside.

During my short foray into the heat, I find things that fascinate me. For instance, the paper wasps that walk on the moving water that flowing from the waterfall in the pond. They stand on the water's surface and drink as the current carries them toward the deeper end of the pond. The honeybees choose to stay on the safety of the river rocks and sip. But the paper wasps risk their lives in their pursuit of water refreshment. No wonder I find so many floating dead on water's surface.

Some flowers in the garden really thrive in the heat. The sunflowers seem at home with their distant solar cousin gazing down on them with it oppressive rays. The bougainvillea looks perkier than ever as it basks in the heat radiated off the concrete of the driveway. The zinnia look quite pleased with the triple digit day soaking it in with all of their hundreds of scalloped petals. The canna lilies are a tropical sort and seem grateful to finally have the heat they crave.

Then I see the pomegranate bush burgeoning with its shiny fruits. It is bent over from the weight of so many as they begin to blush deeper with the onset of autumn that seems so far away on a day like today. I find a pomegranate that has literally split open while still hanging on the branch. The heat has made its ruby contents known.

I am reminded of something I just read a couple of days ago. In Jewish tradition, the pomegranate is highly symbolic. Those glistening translucent ruby morsels represented the many seeds of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It is fitting that I found this split open fruit today in this heat, less than 72 hours after acquiring that piece of insight. The layers of symbolism flood my mind as I think of the seeds and what they represent to me in this context.

As an 135th great granddaughter of Abraham and Sarah of Agade, myself, I ponder being one of those seeds. Do I glisten? Do I shine? Am I as vibrant as they? Do I do justice to the fruit and bush that bore me? Would Abraham be satisfied to claim me as one of his own?

My mind is as laden with questions on this hot day as the pomegranate bush is with fruit.

Old Friend Wanderlust...

Wanderlust has often called out to me in my life. Sometimes it's been because I am suffering from the winter blues and am dreaming of a warm beach on a tropical island. My husband knows I've reached my limit when he finds me browsing internet travel sites at midnight in the darkness of January looking at internet airfares to Mexico and Hawaii. There are times that we've had the funds to indulge my need for sunshine. We've gone to that far off tropical island. And let me tell you, indulging one's need is often worse than continuing to tough it out in the dreary cold. It makes it so much harder the next time around.

Sometimes the wanderlust has come, because I can't stand one more day of a summer heat-wave and want to escape to a cool shoreline north of here. I've indulged myself in that arena as well. Once, when I was single, a dear friend and I decided we'd both beat the heat and took off after work on a Friday evening in my un-air-conditioned Honda Civic hatchback and headed up the coast of California to the cooler northern climes of Eureka. It is one of the best memories. I felt like I'd really taken control of a situation that seemed so out my control. Who can control the weather? Well, I felt like we did that weekend! And it felt so great and empowering.

Wanderlust has been a familiar feeling for most of my life. So it has been foreign to me to have this nesting homebody feeling that has come over me the past few years. I suppose it comes with age for many people. For me, it has also come with the reality of actually putting down roots in a home, naming that home Rosehaven Cottage, and knowing that it will be my home (in all probability) for the rest of my life. It is a comforting feeling, this nesting thing that has grown inside me. It has brought me in tune with the cycles of the earth and nature; with the changing of the seasons; and with the changing of myself as I change seasons in my own life.

But old friend wanderlust peeks in now and again. As a result, I am flying out in a couple of days to visit my aunt and attend a week-long continuing education experience that I've always wanted to participate in but haven't. It will be a wonderful opportunity to visit with my aunt, get valuable education in preparation for my volunteer teaching that will begin again in September, and I will also have the wonderful privilege of being the photographer at my cousin's wedding reception. But I leave my dear husband (and best friend) at home with the kitties, the garden, and the fish in the pond.

Prior to marrying my soul mate almost 10 years ago, I considered myself a very independent and empowered woman. So why is it now so hard to leave when I wouldn't have batted an eye a decade ago? Why am I obsessing over vacuuming every nook and cranny and dusting places I haven't dusted in forever? I've done my umpteenth load of laundry today. I've scrubbed the windowsills (when do I ever do that?). I've mentally churned all day.

I think it's because when it comes right down to it, I'm finally content in my life. I finally feel a sense of belonging to something, to someone, and to the very soil that I till and sow my seeds within. It is hard to be transplanted, even temporarily, when I've finally grown roots.

Reading What My Grampy Read

We like to read books together. I read aloud while my husband cooks, drives the car, or winds down at night. We've read many books together this way.

The book we are currently reading is very special for many reasons. My mother found it in her things, read it, and let us borrow it saying that we absolutely HAD to read it.

She told us that it was the book that her father (my Grampy) would read to her and her sisters aloud. She said that he would laugh and laugh, and they wouldn't understand what was so funny. But they loved the experience of having him read to them.

Now I have the very book that he read out of in my hands, and I'm reading it aloud to my husband. That fact, in and of itself is very special and has a beauty that is hard to describe or fathom completely.

But there is more to why this book is special. The book is an autobiographical account of Ralph Moody (the author) and his family when they moved from New England to Colorado in 1906 when he was only 8 years old. The places he tells about are the places I lived in when I was between the ages of 6 and 10 years old and then again when I was a freshman and sophomore in high school. So his way of looking at the world is very much the way mine was at the same age. He mentions places that I know firsthand: places that are part of my childhood memories. He talks about feelings and experiences I can completely relate to.

For these special reasons, the book has brought about such choice emotions, memories, and stirrings deep within me. And as I read aloud, I often stop and share those with my husband. We have shed tears as we've read the book together.

Just yesterday as we drove home from my husband's parents' home, I read the following passage aloud. It is Ralph's father talking to him as they milk the cows and giving his son some important advice in a way that only a parent can. It touched my very inner core, and I am still digesting the concepts it discusses. It is such a powerful example of the beauty of simplicity and so much more. I am sharing it here in the hope that someone else will find value in it as well.

"Son, I had hoped you wouldn't run into anything like this till you were
older, but maybe it's just as well. There are only two kinds of men in
this world: Honest men and dishonest men. There are black men and
white men and yellow men and red men, but nothing counts except whether they're
honest men or dishonest men.

"Some men work almost entirely with their brains; some almost entirely with
their hands; though most of us have to use both. But we all fall into one
of the two classes--honest and dishonest.

"Any man who says that the world owes him a living is dishonest. The
same God that made you and me made this earth. And He planned it so that
it would yield every single thing that the people on it need. But He was
careful to plan it so that it would only yield up its welath in exchange for the
labor of man. Any man who tries to share in that wealth without
contributing the work of his brain or his hands is dishonest.

"Son, this is a long sermon for a boy of your age, but I want so much for
to be an honest man that I had to explain it to you." (p 177)

Ralph then goes on to write:

"I wish I knew how Father was able to say things so as to make you remember
every word of it. If I could remember everything the way I remember the
things Father told me, maybe I could be as smart a man as he was." (p 177)

[Little Britches: Father and I Were Ranchers by Ralph Moody (Chicago USA, copyright 1950 by Ralph Moody)]

Drip Mist, Salt Lake City, and the Ferris Wheel of My Brain

Have you ever had one of those weeks that feels like a whirlwind? That's been my last week and a half. We traveled to a family reunion in Utah last week. Traveling always makes me feel a little frazzled and causes me to lose my bearings in the time-keeping department of my brain (especially when we travel across time zones). It's like I've gone back to when I was a kid and summer seemed to have no clocks.

Before we left, I realized that since the house was painted last fall I hadn't hooked up a functioning drip mist system for the back garden and there was no way that the potted plants were going to make it until we got back (I didn't want to burden our cat sitter with that task). Silly me waited until the day before our departure to go out and hook up all the mini hoses and drippers to each new pot around the pond. Fortunately, I had to send my husband out on only one run to Ace Hardware for connectors I didn't have because I started the task late in the evening and the store closed shortly after his quick trip. Summer time-keeping has been hard this year--don't know why. I've felt like it's earlier than it really is. Has it always stayed light this late? All logic assures me that it has but this year feels different. Maybe it's because I'm feeling more alive and in tune with myself and my surroundings.

So with the drip mist extensions and changes in place I could go away on our short trip knowing that I wouldn't come home to dead potted plants even if the temperatures soared. Never mind the fact that I had yet to pack, vacuum the living room so the cat sitter won't think ill of my housekeeping, and get my head into the trip itself.

The last was the hardest to do--getting my head into the trip. I was planning on doing some family history research while there what with the LDS Family History Library right there in Salt Lake City. That alone required some fraction of my brain. I have this process in my brain that I like to envision as a ferris wheel--each bucket of the ferris wheel containing an idea that I need to process and mull over. Well, it seemed that my ferris wheel hadn't acquired a bucket for the trip or the items attached to it like the family history research. It seemed that the wheel was completely full of buckets about the garden, the website, the online store, my photography... every bucket imaginable except one for the trip. So finally late that night, I managed to get a wee bucket on there so I could focus enough on gathering my research notes and electronic files on the laptop so I could do some sort of research

We flew the next day via JetBlue--a favorite of ours because of the great legroom, leather seats, wonderful employees, and satellite televisions at every seat that we can listen to with our iPod headphones (universal jack). The flight went out later in the day so it afforded me time to pack. Good thing too because I had come down with a head cold (yes, in the summer!) and my head was foggier than I would have liked. With all my cold medicine and a huge stack of nice soft tissues in my carry-on, we were off.

I hadn't been to Salt Lake City for the past 9 years and was anxious to take photos with my new camera (a big bucket in the ferris wheel). Seeing the city as a photographer was a phenomenal experience! Early in the trip my patient husband learned to pull the rental car over at the word, "Stop!" I would see something that looked like a great photo and just have to shoot it. He was so good to indulge me although sometimes he was purposefully heavy on the brakes just for dramatic effect.

I also found that the family history bucket in the ferris wheel became dominant as soon as I set foot in the LDS Family History Library. Get me around stacks of books with potential research gems and I'm like a bloodhound in the Louisiana swamp. My mom lovingly calls me "Lafayette" for that very reason. I hunted down wonderful pieces of information about my ancestor--a shepherd in Scotland in the late 1700's. I found the farm on which he actually herded sheep and the tenant farmer that ran the farm which his family had run for nearly 300 years before. Yes, I was baying like a bloodhound inside.

The reunion started the following day and covered two days. What priceless experiences we had as a family. I saw cousins I hadn't seen in 10-25 years. I saw other cousins that I begin to crave seeing if I haven't seen them in a year or so. I spent a great deal of time with my two aunts and their spouses; enjoying them and soaking in the experience of simply being with kin that share one's heritage. The experience was enlivening and enriching. I've been on a natural emotional high for the entire week following the reunion. Family connections truly are precious and vital to our core beings.





And despite the scorching heat of Salt Lake City easily climbing up into the 100's, I thoroughly enjoyed the city as I always do. It is a beautiful urban center that doesn't feel like a big city. I particularly became enchanted by the city during the very warm summer evenings. Photographically capturing the lights at dusk became a bit of an obsession (which my sweet husband again obliged).

Now we are home to the cats and the garden. The cats forgave our absence quickly although Dee Dee had to meow at us quite a bit for the first half hour we were home. The potted plants in the back garden faired very well with the new system that I really didn't test before trusting that it would work sufficiently while we were away.

Too bad I forgot about the potted miniature roses in front...