.347/365.

Flag Football time again this year.

Ps, I can't believe that Matthew
& I met for the first time three years ago today!

.324/365.

Used to live here.
It was such a good experience.
I would love to visit again.

.298/365.

This bank belonged to my mom when she was little.
She gave it to me when I turned 8
& I still remember the thrill
of putting babysitting money inside it.

.296/365.

I don't think we can ever get rid of this sofa.
Matt & I were sitting on it when we had our
DTR (define the relationship)
chat back in the day.
awww. . .

.291/365.

A quilt that I made in 1993?
Can't you tell by the colors?

.279/365.

I used to go for walks with my grandparents.
We would scan the ground for beautiful rocks,
& by the time I got home,
every pocket would be full.
I don't always pick them up,
but I always look for them.

.249/365.

As a little girl I used to LOVE playing in the sprinklers in the front yard.
One day my Dad came home with a sprinkler just like this one,
& it was just for me.
I'll never forget how Dad made my little four year old
heart feel so special.

.240/365.

summerLovin

.234/365.

.230/365.

a really gorgeous trunk that my mom is hanging on to for my aunt
(until I can talk her out of it *wink)
it belonged to my mothers great great grandmother.
right mom?
I love family heirlooms. I love to image who these mysterious people were,
& if I'm like them.

.221/365.

a little late on spring cleaning. . .
but it's always fun to walk down memory lane

.199/365.

.i remember you every day.
.i remember our walks.
.i remember your big hand taking my small one.
.i remember your smell.
.i remember how you spoke about the woman of your dreams.
.i remember our birthdays, every one.
.i will always remember you.

.130/365.

earrings given to me by my grandmother
she is no longer with us. . .
she is on my mind today.

.128/365.

The Village Blacksmith
.:Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

.111/365.

meet one of my childhood treasures.
my very own black beauty.