family

one of the contributors over at the always inspiring shutter sisters blog said something that struck a chord (cord?) with me a few days ago. (well i thought it was on shutter sisters, but i'll be damned if i can find the post) but regardless, she said that someone had reminded her to take pictures of the ones you love. i am especially bad about this. i feel awkward getting my giant camera out when i'm gathered with friends and family, especially when they are snapping away with their tiny point and shoots. i feel terribly silly around the people i know, thinking that surely they must be annoyed by the fact that i'm always sticking my camera in their face.

but this time i decided to take her words to heart. some are more artistic than others, but all are meaningful.

she was talking about her flowers and just kept on a-talking

this is my grandmother, my mom's mom.


she still lives in the cute little house that my grandpa and his brother built for her back in the 40's. its full of little details that I have forgotten to remember.


like the ornate doorknobs that came from another old house. the one on the way into the kitchen has the pattern almost worn off from all the hands that have gripped it over the years. that one always had rubber bands around it, just in case you needed one.


or the little fellow by the garage that holds a lantern. its probably as unpolitically correct as you can get. but it wouldn't be grandma's house without it.


and the chicks-and-hens that grow in and around all her flower beds. i don't know where she got the idea to plant them in shoes, but apparently they thrive in them. these were my grandpa's last heavy work boots he wore before he retired. they've held up since the 70's, she tells me. not like those cheap shoes you get today...


this is where she has sat for as long as i can remember. her chair is by the bay window. his chair was in the corner on the other side of the fireplace. his chair always had a jar of candy behind it, but that's been gone for many years, though the chair remains.


and beside the chair, hanging on her reading lamp is her rosary. she prays it every day. once for each of her children and their spouses, for the grandkids and the great-grandkids. she reminded me before i left to remember to pray, and for a moment i wished that i believed because i knew it would make her happy.


even now, with both my aunt and i in the house, she insists on washing the dishes. its her routine, she says. and so we shared the task. (once i was done taking a picture, that is.)