Pops

My father does not enjoy having his picture taken.

In that one fleeting moment of having a camera pointed his way, he forgets what to do with his face.

Where should his eyebrows go? Should they form a straight line, should one be up and one down? Which one should be up? Should they be all akimbo? Should he furrow his brow? Which corner of his mouth should he lift? And how crinkly around the eyes is too crinkly?

I had a camera out at Mildred's birthday party, poor soul.

I thought I'd killed him with my strange whirring contraption.

But, happily for me (and Mildred's peace of mind as we celebrated her birth), he revived.

                                           

The Party Proper

My niece Mildred turned 12.

She's got a wonderfully odd little soul housed within. She loves to chuckle and exchange knowing glances with me or her mama when when one of the littles does something especially charming. Oh, aren't they the sweetest things... She sounds like an encyclopedia sometimes as she rattles off her opinion about one subject or another. She likes to wear aprons when she cooks, she looks up crafty Youtube videos when she has free time, and she knits better than your grandmother. 

She also plans a mean birthday party. 

My parents were in attendance, as were her siblings, an honored cousin, and myself.

Mama sneaked some birch beer, unwittingly providing the perfect foreground for Bird's drama. Abigail looks sweet and elegant as she demurely sips from the bottle, but...

...a beast rages within.

For Mildred's sake, the beast was tamed and the cake made it safely to the table. 

I wouldn't mind living in a sugary house like this, would you? 

We even had live entertainment of the finest kind, the sort that would enliven the courts of the grandest kings: string art.

To my Millie, happy birthday.

Ambition

After doing some dabbling with watercolors here and there, I decided it was time to take the leap and outfit myself with an easel and some acrylics and all the other odds and ends one needs to paint on canvas rather than just on paper.

The motive?

Painting something to be part of my wedding gift to my dear Amanda and Kevin.

I prepared myself, smock and all.

The first step in painting something wedding-worthy is eyeing your canvas.

Eyeing it really well...

The blank white was a bit daunting.

But then I got started.

Ready, set, PAINT!

Stage 1: Put paint on canvas.

Stage 2: Put more paint on canvas.

Stage 3: Add the secret symbolism that makes it romantic for Amanda and Kevin in particular... (per Amanda's request). 

[Do this by putting more paint on canvas.]

For another part of their wedding gift, I also crocheted my very first afghan from start to finish. It was a good project to keep my hands busy and my lap warm this past winter.

Close-up:

On my bed before getting wrapped up:

If only I had time for things like this always. There aren't enough hours in the day for everything, but it's nice when one can sneak in a little time to add some color to the everyday.

Paparazzo (Noun, Singular)

I'm the one who gave the assignment to my class at the start of the school year last September, so I suppose I'm to blame: bring 3 objects (or pictures of them) that you think best encapsulate who you are and write a brief essay explaining why you chose them.

One of my students had wildly ambitious ideas that involved guns and mechanic's tools and deer antlers. Alas, these were not school-friendly items.

So I arranged for a photo shoot at the house of one of the aides I work with (she's a beautiful soul, the mother hen type who loves children outside of school as well as in). T. went there often this fall, as an "employee" to help on her tree farm. It was a huge motivator for him.

We met up on a Saturday, and camera-slinging Miss Johnson made him feel famous as he strode around doing Man's Work.

Proud.

To cap it all off, he wanted to take me on a ride in the Gator. Don't worry, I was duly impressed with his nonchalant lip-chewing, back-leaning, one-handed driving.

And now he's off to middle school.

My babies are growing up.

The Green Mountain State

Growing up, I didn't travel much.

Going to the Great New York State Fair was one of the biggest yearly events of my young life. This changed as I grew older and God swept me off on a couple of adventures. The fact remains, though, that I still have seen sadly little of the land I call home.

I'm pleased to say, though, that I can now count Vermont among those states I've traveled to.

A good friend of mine--a lovely friend, a bright friend, and a brave one--is going solo as she works on her doctorate in physical therapy in Vermont. She and her sister (another very fine friend, indeed) and I all traveled there this spring to visit the college campus, check off a gravely long list of to-do's, and generally enjoy each other's company. Wanting to make the most of the jaunt, we found a quaint Austen-esque bed and breakfast to--well, to bed and breakfast in.

It was stunning. The woodwork turned a honey gold in the sunbeams, the antique furniture looked like it had grown into place, and our host and hostess were as lovely and homespun as they come.

This was the crown jewel of the place. A piano over a hundred years old (I'm not sure how old, exactly) that had been passed down from one generation to the next. I got to play the beauty, and she sounded as mellifluous as springtime.

The breakfast part of the whole experience was wonderful. I only snapped a picture before the food arrived, so imagine this picture but ten times better and you'll know what we woke up to.

There were trails and acres of wide-open space behind the house, and we were told we could run free. So we did.

It'd be a pity to not be able to see some green mountains in the Green Mountain State. Charcoal-gray mountains proved almost as nice.

Sunset.

[If you haven't yet noticed, I have a fascination with taking pictures of plants that make them look like nature's skyscrapers...]

On the ride home after a productive trip with lots of time for words to germinate inside our heads (and sometimes worm their way outside them when the mood struck), we stopped to enjoy the wind.

Thank you for a fine introduction to Vermont, my friends!

Neighbors

It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood,
A beautiful day for a neighbor,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
It's a neighborly day in this beauty wood, 
A neighborly day for a beauty, 
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
I have always wanted to have a neighbor just like you,
I've always wanted to live in a neighborhood with you.
So let's make the most of this beautiful day,
Since we're together, we might as well say,
Would you be mine?
Could you be mine?
Won't you be my neighbor?
Won't you please, 
Won't you please, 
Please won't you be my neighbor?

Mr. Rogers says it best. No surprise there.

When I first moved to Bainbridge to start teaching, I went apartment hunting with my parents. I ended up choosing one that we all liked--homey and cozy and small with a nice backyard.

Looking back now, it was a good choice. Not many people who live in town are forced to freeze before walking down their steps to watch a doe licking off her minutes-old fawn. 

It was a good choice for a much more important reason, though.

Neighbors. 

One of my neighbors happened to be one of my students, too. I'm going to refrain from saying much at all about these neighbors (although an awful lot of things could be said, as our lives have been woven together like a tapestry for these past two years), but I'm going to give you the barest glimpse.

Because I simply can't help myself. 

My student D. would often come over--to read with me, for tutoring, to talk, to listen to Peter Yarrow sing "Puff the Magic Dragon" over and over again and sing along, voice all tender and out of tune. 

"You can't move away," he said. "I need to keep coming over here. Even when I'm in high school. Hey, when I'm thirty I need to keep coming over!"

And once upon a time, he brought his brother. And we baked an apple pie. 

D. is the one wearing an apron. He didn't even know that boys his age are, by right, supposed to shun aprons. And I love him for it.

This one's for you, dear little neighbor.