Incoming

Friday was the day. It was sunny and Caleb was in a good mood. Can’t beat that, so we drove to Hopedale that morning. I parked in a Resident Only lot, all for the sake of art and we walked down the block to Freedom Street. I spent a lot of time in Hopedale last year as you know. And upon my first encounter I decided I liked the place. It’s small. Smaller than Millis and that’s saying something. The architecture of the town, like most of New England, is amazing.
One structure that I fell square over compass for was an old factory on Freedom Street. Ever since I discovered this building last year it has been my destiny to photograph Caleb there!

Friday was the day.

I ended up with 160 shots and the following are what I have edited.
Here’s what a granola bar and lots of cars passing by got me:

The reason why I like the photo above is less obvious, you have to enlarge it. The street sign says “Progress.” Just so you know, Progress Street in Hopedale is a “one way” that leads to one of those caution “children” signs. :)

The hardest part wasn’t protecting Caleb from the oncoming traffic.

It was protecting the cars from the Caleb-projected rocks.

(Yi-ikes.)

Happy Fathers' Day!

Hope your Fathers' Day is snappy.

Love,

Us

Not Yet Filled

The following blog post was adapted, like most of my posts, from an e-mail correspondence with a friend. If you are a member of my relief society presidency, please do not be offended or otherwise. Really, it’s no biggie.

The Tuesday following Emma’s delivery, my mother and I went to the Christmas Tree Shops where I purchased a glass vase.

We do peculiar things when we grieve.

What most people don’t know about me is I don’t like fresh-cut flowers. They have a vibrant presence for a brief period then they die. How depressing is that? My distain has caused my husband to be creative in the flora gift department: origami, pictures, drawings. It also caused my home to be vase-less for many years until that Tuesday, two days after I delivered.

When I got home from the store, I was resolute to fill the vase with a phony floral arrangement someday. In honesty, however, I wouldn’t.

I liked it being empty. I know it sounds morbid, even now it sounds odd clacking-it-out on the keyboard, but it was nice not being the only “empty” one around. I had spent seven months being pregnant and now I wasn’t.

I kept the vase empty and stored it in our kitchen “hutch” that holds my crock pots, toaster and other units. I’d toss the vase a smile each morning. We were cohorts in a way.

Then one evening I received a bouquet from our branch’s Relief Society presidency. The flowers were fixed in a vase that could have been my vase’s twin. My mother put the arrangement on the dining room table. I frowned at it. And felt poorly for my vase when I saw it in the hutch as I made toast in the morning.

With that said, I know

I’m weird.

I could have looked at the vase as not-yet-filled rather than just empty. It could have been an obscure object lesson for me, a parallel: an empty vase, an empty tomb. Eh? Eh? (imagine me elbowing your ribs in a chummy way here)

But much like my perception of the barren bush, my sensitivity to the parable of the vase was rash.

Now I have two empty vases in my hutch.

Any ideas what I should do with them?

There’s emptiness unlimited opportunity and hope to work with.