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Day 7: A Photo of Someone You Miss

Eleanor
Boston, Massachusetts
1943

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
—Mary Elizabeth Frye
Everyday, I miss you.  It’s a hurt that never quite heals. It reminds me of how much you loved me, and that you love me still. 
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IN: ON: March 7, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Day 6: A Photo of Someone You Love

CHG
Williamsburg, VA
August, 2010


I never say “I love you” to my brother unless we are being sarcastic. I know it’s weird, but it’s something we just don’t do. I think it’s understood that we love each other, that we’d take a bullet for one another, that we’d shank someone for one another.  We just don’t put it into words.  I love him, though.  Truly, truly.  He’s smart, he’s funny, he’s someone I admire.  He’s a hard worker, a solid friend, a loyal brother.  He’s appropriately inappropriate and always there when I need him.   

I love how we can text each other random lines from Archer and know exactly what the other is talking about.  I love he always manages to stop in for a short visit when his work brings him down this way.  I’d love to have him closer than B-more, but I’ll take these quick trips when I can. He brings out my goofiness and the laughs don’t stop. I love how he’s an awesome uncle, continually amazed at how smart and savvy Morgan is.  He has a special bond with Coever, something to do with those identical birthmarks of theirs, I’m sure. 


 I love how he’s dying to have the girls stay with him for a week-end, but flinching at the fact that assistance with wiping may be part of the equation.  I know he’s going to be the one that teaches them to run Hail Mary’s, introduces them to the Justice League and the X-Men, gives them ice cream and Pop-Tarts for dinner.  He’ll take them to ESPN Zone and help them with their fade aways from the three-point line. He’ll let them race go-karts and run ragged at Chuck E. Cheese.  He’ll let them stay up late watching whatever they want on television and give them Kit-Kats and Yoo-Hoo for breakfast.  Then, he’ll pack them back into my car with a wave good-bye so he can go inside for his “nappy-wappy”.  And the thing is, I’ll let him.  He’s my brother, and I love him. 
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IN: ON: March 7, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Day 5: A Photo that Makes You Laugh

Mount Trashmore
Virginia Beach, Virginia
August 3, 2010

My parents and I took the girls on a mystery ride that found us at Mount Trashmore as our final destination.  We did a tour of the playground and picnicked under the lazy shade of some mature trees before venturing up, up, up to the top of Mount Trashmore.  60 feet up in the air, actually.  
My dad and the girls ran (well, he walked, and they ran) up to the top.  The girls twirled around and around, their arms outstretched wide ready to squeeze the cumulus cloud and wring the warmth out of the sun.  My dad got it in his head that it would be fun to roll the girls like a barrel down the hill.  A telling sign of how times have changed: the girls had no idea what he was talking about.  Unlike the house in which I grew up, our house now isn’t conducive to being stuffed into a trash bin and rolled furiously down the yard until you crash into something, anything, in order to stop. My dad decided to demo it for them a couple of times.  After his first few revolutions, they couldn’t wait. And they were all about tandem rolling.

I love how he tries to bring Morgan around for another roll — by the neck! As I helped the girls straighten up and pick the grass from their hair and backs of their legs, I noticed some gray-ish green smudges of dirt on the grass around us.  At least, I thought it was dirt.  There are a lot of geese around Mount Trashmore.  A lot. 
The girls had flew back up to the top with my dad ready for another roll but instead of continuing to roll in geese crap, they decided to race down the hill.  My dad took off down the hill honking, with the girls, like goslings, hot on heels.  
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IN: ON: March 5, 2011 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Bijou

I saw this over at GibsonKing and immediately fell in love.

 Super cute, or should I say, tres mignon? While I probably wouldn’t buy it for myself, it’s something that I’d love receiving as a gift.  Like if someone,*koff::koff*DH*koff::koff*, were to buy it, slide it into my passport and then slide that into an airline ticket sleeve that held some first class tickets to Charles de Gaulle? Um, yeah.  Who said diamonds are a girls’ best friend?

Although. . .

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IN: ON: March 4, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Day Four: A Place You’d Like to Visit

Provence, France

In my head, I’m a world traveler the likes of which rivals Carmen Sandiego.  In truth, I’ve crossed a few state lines in my 30 plus years, but when I think about where I’ve been in these United States hasn’t been too far from my own backyard.  When it comes to international travel, I could count on one hand how many times I’ve had my passport stamped in the past 10 years.  

Often times when we plan a trip, our itinerary  is slam packed with things to do, people to visit and places to see.  DH and I are at a place in our lives when we’d rather do off the beaten path type of trips rather than the traditional mega city whirlwinds.  I’m ready to just pack my toothbrush and leave the Fodor’s at home on the shelf.

Imagine waking up in a cozy room, overlooking the quaint cobblestoned streets of a village of Luberon.  I can totally see myself sipping a cafe au lait and doing some serious people watching in Gordes before heading off to haggle at the market. The vielles dames will coo and cluck like sweet hens over the girls, pinching their cheeks and chucking their chins.   We’ll get a baguette, some grapes or cherries, and snack in the village square.  “Let’s get some bikes and lost in Lacoste”, DH will say.  The sun will set in lush colors of ochre and lavender as he and I sip wine on the outdoor patio of  any of the abundant vineyards.  We’ll leave dusty red footprints from our walk of the Colorado de Rustrel in Roussillon.

It used to be, with every trip, I’d stuff ticket stubs, photographs, and travel brochures in my journal.  Now I see, experience is the best souvenir.


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IN: ON: March 4, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Day Three: A Photo that Makes You Happy

Longpoint Beach
Martha’s Vineyard
June 2010

The weather has been down right bi-polar lately.  67 degrees yesterday. 37 degrees today.  I don’t know when to bundle up and when to strip down. Most days I look like a homeless person, just wearing all my layers in case of a shift in the weather.  Indoors or outdoors, my hands are constantly cold. The upside to that, though,  is the girls have finally started dressing themselves to avoid my frozen fingers.  
I was born in Massachusetts where white Christmases are often preceded by white Halloweens.  I spent my formative years in New Jersey, which has seen it’s fair share of cold weather as of late.  Having lived in Virginia for the other half of my life, I’ve totally lost that Yankee edge.  Anything below 65 degrees?  Um, where’s my jacket?  And could you pass me my scarf? 
It’s no surprise that when the weather channel calls for low temps, I turn up thermostat. I’m starting to think it’s an exercise in futility because the house never feels like it’s warming up.  It’s that thing — psychosomatic — I turn up the thermostat and trick myself into believing I’m getting warmer.    As a result,  I forget to turn it down by the time I go to bed. We’ve got radiator heat, which is hot like the 7th circle of Hades once it gets cooking.  My side of the bed is on the radiator side and along about 2 in the morning, I am sweating like a hooker in church! God forbid we open a window; that’s the express lane to sore throats, stuffed noses and all matter of hacking coughs.  
The next day, it’s a balmy 60 plus degrees.  The neighbors and kids are out in flip-flops and tank tops.  Even nature is fooled into thinking warmth is abundant and long lasting.  Daffodils and crocuses start to sprout, the grass greens up and then the sun goes down, taking heat with it. 
I am so ready for a steady bout of spring like weather.  Even if it’s overcast, even if it’s drizzling a bit, I’ll take it.  Until then, I’ll stick my hands in my armpits for warmth, re-wrap my scarf around my neck and wish myself back to the hot, hot sand on Longpoint Beach.

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IN: ON: March 3, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Day Two: A Photo of Yourself At Least A Year Ago

Our House
June, 2011
DH channeling Austin Powers
This is the face of a woman having a good laugh.  It was a gorgeous summer day. My hair was working, my face (as the kids say) was beat, and I can proudly say that orthodontia works wonders.  
When was the last time you had a really good laugh? I mean, the kind that leaves you breathless and glassy eyed from the tears rolling down your cheeks?  Sure, the girls do comical things that elicit chuckles.  The stuff that comes out of their mouths, the way they imitate the mannerisms of my parents or me and DH, that’s funny. But what about gut-busting?  
Though I’d never tell him for fear of inflating his already large ego, my brother is hilarious.  He has this way of telling a story, particularly any involving members of our family, that will leave you holding your sides and wheezing for breath.  He throws out one-liners and makes observations with a Seinfeld-esque ease. And when situations call for solemnity, he’s handing out quips to lighten the load. 
I took him as my guest to a wedding about 3 years ago.  Christopher and I had the pleasure of standing behind this guest at the buffet line, who was sporting a rather loud looking suit.  The back was embellished with some kind of peacock-turkey-eagle hybrid or something. 
“You gotta take a picture,” Christopher says to me. “No one will believe this.” But we were in the midst of mixed company.  How am I going to just snap a photo of this fashion disaster without it looking so obvious that I am making fun of this guy. 
“Okay, okay,” say Christopher, “Here’s what we’re going to do.  Give me your sunglasses.  Now take my picture, but fake it.”
Every time I look at this picture, I crack up.  The jacket. That Risky Business look Christopher is sporting.  Again, the jacket.  Epic fail. 
What gets you start cracking up so badly that even trying to explain it to someone else leaves you dissolved in a puddle of gasps, hoots, and “Hang on, hang on. I’m going to get it together?”  Please share, ’cause I always enjoy a good laugh. 
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IN: ON: March 2, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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