The little electric stove in the corner of the room hums (and makes a disconcerting noise that has me wondering if it’s nearing the end of its lifespan) and Murphy, my constant companion, is tucked in his crate watching every move I make. A fading bunch of grocery store flowers is on the table next
Often, I take photographs looking out over the ridge where we live to the hills and clay cliffs across the valley. You’ve seen some of them here. Less frequently, I lift my lens toward the south because it’s just not as spectacular. And yet the view from there captivates me in a different way. Early
I can’t order proof copies of new unpublished books from Amazon KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) because of COVID and the fact that I’m in Canada which, of course, in the grand scheme is insignificant but in my little world is an annoyance. It also makes absolutely no sense. I need to get creative to do
One afternoon we took our cameras to the rose garden. The photos I took remained on my camera card, my camera languishing on the antique stove in my woman cave, for weeks. I took time to download and process them a few days ago and found a bit of soft magic. This image evokes a
I must have known it at some point but the knowledge that the sun rises due east on only the spring and fall equinoxes and that now, as we approach the summer solstice it’s more northeast, faded. Watching the sun rise over the hill on the other side of the ridge this morning confuses me.
“Are you ready for church?” I call downstairs. ”Yup. Be right there,” Gerry calls back. And like we’ve done every Sunday for the past ten weeks, we gather in the den where I work some magic to get my phone display to broadcast on the big screen TV and we have church. Afterward, we talk
I carry baby tomato plants in a small box on my lap while Gerry drives to the community garden. My hands brush across their leaves. The scent of hope wafts from them. The plants have been growing in my laundry room since I dropped tiny seeds into pots in early April, unmotivated, with barely enough
First Day of Spring
The sun shines through the east facing window kissing the bunch of tulips on the dining table. The light is magical. I’d like to put the macro lens on my camera and play but there are other more pressing things to do. I grab my phone and take a quick shot to mark the moment.
Pizza Night. And a Tulip.
I pull the KitchenAid from the cupboard where it languishes lonely most of the time, and rummage around looking for the dough hook. Then I dump flour, yeast, kosher salt, and water in the bowl and, after it’s kneaded the dough for eight minutes while I putter around doing other things, wonder why I don’t
We’re at the walking track one morning and I see a young man I went to high school with on the exercise equipment. It’s not, of course, but it takes a couple of laps before I realize that it can’t possibly be him. The mind plays tricks when it comes to age. It does the
Gerry brought them home a week or so ago: loud, brash looking tulips. I pulled out my camera, affixed my macro lens, and shot a few images—knowing I’d convert them to black and white in post processing. They were too much for the calm I hungered for. Now they’re long past their prime and there’s