Cease and persist

Here's your sign

Be ye warned that what follows is another re-run, originally posted on this web site on September 22, 2014.

But it is one that is eerily timely. And I hope you'll read it either for the first time, or again.

With all the many kerfuffles -- both developing and ongoing -- throughout our country having to do with people of one color being accosted by certain other people of the diametrically opposed color (either way), and involving -- ahem -- misunderstandings that turn on a dime into the extremely heated variety, being what happens when heavy-handedness confronts non-compliance (a/k/a the immovable object meeting the irresistible force), the particulars of this tale in its retelling are particularly salient.

And, upon reflection, as completely nuts as they were six years ago.

Especially as the yarn has to do with folks in authority versus folks ... well, not in authority, but not necessarily in the wrong either.

I believe you will agree that the street goes both ways and these days, either way it goes, we are ending up in catastrophe. 

The takeaway may be, however, that -- as always -- cooler heads, when they are allowed to prevail, will see the problem through to a sane and satisfactory resolution long before hotter heads will.

So let's get started.

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Pause and reflect

It was a close call.

All I'm saying.

I refer to the South Carolina State Lunatic Asylum on Bull Street Incident which occurred last Saturday at approximately Nineteen Hundred Hours.

The whole thing began when, after a full day of company at our house, TG, I, Andrew, Audrey, Erica, Dagny, and Rambo decamped and headed downtown.

Our plan was to walk on the grounds of the old abandoned mental hospital, taking exercise, being curious but not nosy. Something I have done a couple of times before, the last occasion very recently.

What you need to know is that there are no gates or any other structures impeding the progress of either motorists or pedestrians who wish to gain access to said grounds.

Andrew investigates

If there are signs indicating stay out or don't use a camera, they are invisible or all but.

The last time I was there, I roamed for nearly three hours unmolested. I saw a few cars and a few folks on foot, but like me, everyone minded their own business.

There are tall black chain link fences around Babcock, the main hospital building which dates back to 1822 and has been abandoned for decades.

And sure, there are "No Trespassing" signs on the fences, which are locked. So I never touch those.

And there are similar signs posted in the windows and doors -- also locked, at least as far as I know -- of the old falling-down smaller buildings that dot the huge campus.

So I never touch those either.

It was a paneful experience

All I do is walk and take pictures. Harming no one.

Such was the scenario on Saturday, except I was accompanied by my family.

We were in two cars: ours and Andrew's.

Our party consisted of two handsome and considerate men, three non-threatening women, a three-month-old baby, and a mild-mannered Labrador.

All hard-working, law-abiding (as far as we knew) taxpayers. Well, except for the baby and the dog, who are guilty of tax evasion.

And again: We were out for nothing more subversive than an evening stroll.

An enduring presence

But apparently, we trespassed.

And that's a no-no, and I get that, I really do, and I am not one of those who goes around with a chip on my shoulder and the attitude that the rules don't apply to me.

But you must believe me when I assure you: We did not know.

As in, we did not intentionally and egregiously set out to trespass or in any other way break the rules and certainly not the law.

So imagine my surprise when, thirty or so minutes into our meanderings, while wandering down one of the many paved streets that delineate the property, I sensed an official-seeming vehicle with blue emergency lights blazing speeding towards me, Audrey, Erica, Dagny, and Rambo.

There was no siren. We were spared the trauma of a siren's wail piercing the stillness.

The cupola of Babcock

TG and Andrew had left us a few minutes before, to fetch our cars and bring them around to where we were.

I was in the midst of taking a photo of the Babcock cupola with setting sunbeams gilding its broken panes, when in my peripheral, I perceived the wildly blinking blue lights.

Since I was blissfully ignorant of having committed any kind of an infraction, I figured the po po were after somebody actually doing something wrong.

In fact, They must be driving through, was Audrey's verbal observation.

And then the car stopped. In front of me. So I lowered my camera.

My eyes met those of a person I can only describe as the angry black female incarnation of Barney Fife.

Abandoned

I mean, this lady was livid. In fact, for the next several minutes she was practically incoherent.

Her tires making a cloud of dust around us, blue lights still winking madly, the security guard demanded to know what I was doing there.

I said we were just walking, not doing much of anything really.

Not bothering to conduct herself in a way even marginally friendly, cordial, or respectful, not to mention professional, the security guard informed me that we were trespassing on private property.

Her tone, if not her actual words, implied that as such we were in gross violation of any number of rules, regulations, restrictions, ordinances, edicts, decrees, commandments, precepts, mandates, codes, orders, canons, covenants, charters, assizes, writs, laws, bylaws, and legislative injunctions.

I refrained from smiling real big and answering: Pirate.

I mean, Girl! Clap me in irons. For reals.

The guard further insisted that everything on my camera would have to be deleted. Immediately.

Although I was vehemently disinclined to acquiesce to her request, I said: Okay. No problem.

(BTW if you think I deleted so much as a frame from my camera's card, I can only say bless your little pea-picking heart.)

But the subject female security guard's demeanor was so harsh that Erica -- my gentle baby Boo! -- spoke up from behind me and in a quiet voice, trust me, not at all disrespectfully, asked the lady:

He was happy to stay in the doorway

Why are you so angry?

On account of, the aggrieved gendarme's level of hostility was distinctly and markedly disproportionate to our crimes.

Suffice it to say, that question went unanswered.

I pointed out that there were no gates prohibiting entrance to the property, that it was in fact wide open, that several cars had passed us in the short time we'd been there, and that I did not violate a single "No Trespassing" sign posted on fences or doors.

Also I said, the only reason I ever came here in the first place is because online, there are hundreds of photos and videos of not only the grounds upon which we stood, but also the interior of many of the buildings.

Prompting additional rage, the kind that indicates a person has been pushed over the edge.

All right. I need to see your ID, the security guard snapped. And I need to see your ID, she glared Erica-ward.

We got our wires crossed

You would have been proud of me, I think, because I did not outwardly exhibit the depth of vexation I felt.

And yes; I have a temper too, and I have been known to temporarily lose track of it.

I will thank you not to snicker.

However, I didn't in fact have my ID; I hadn't driven or even brought my purse. All I had was my camera.

I told the irate officer as much, saying I was sorry.

But she repeated that she was going to have to see my ID and also Erica's ID.

In a country where certain special people don't even need an ID to vote for a president or receive welfare, I found the directive a trifle amusing.

Don't slam the ... never mind

My husband will be here any minute, I said. And he has an ID you may see.

(Turns out the female security guard had already met TG and Andrew, over by our cars, and had initially gone off on them just as angrily as she would confront us, and had even threatened to write something down on a clipboard.)

I was still marveling inwardly at the way the thing had started out at an escalation level befitting Homeland Security coming down on a cabal of evil terrorists, or a souped-up Zamboni being used to exterminate a family of fleas, when a second car (no lights activated) calmly pulled up behind the first car.

A strapping black male security guard exited the second vehicle, smiling. In no hurry, he ambled in our direction and asked the name of our dog. Upon learning it, he warmly greeted Rambo, whose tail wagged in enthusiastic agreement that it was about time somebody used some manners.

I looked back at the female security guard, and as God is my very witness, it was as though she had been instantaneously and magically replaced with a sane version of herself. The transformation took place in the blink of an eye.

In a manner I can describe only as helpful and courteous, she told me that in order to do what I was doing and not run afoul of the authorities (or, I assume, be required to produce an ID), I would need to sign a Release.

Day is done

Where do I get the Release? I wanted to know.

Down on Bull Street at the DMH. The female officer almost smiled.

Oh. That would be the Department of Mental Health.

And I thought: Girl it's you needs to visit the DMH 'cause you be cray cray. Get help. Get anti-psychotic meds, anger management counseling, coping mechanisms, perspective training, hydrotherapy, shock treatment. Whatever it takes.

But I just smiled and said Thank you, I sure will do that, before wondering out loud whethr the Release would get me across the portals of Babcock to take some interior photos.

Whereupon -- again! -- with exceeding consideration, the female security officer told me that on occasion it was possible to partake of a guided tour for that express purpose.

Discussion of my camera's contents was not renewed. The camera itself was not confiscated.

A few moments later, Andrew and TG drove up to collect we womenfolk, the baby, and the dog.

Exit strategy

I took one last photo of the sun setting behind the South Carolina State Lunatic Asylum, abandoned.

Hoping all the while that in doing so, I was not in unwitting violation of any laws written or unwritten, posted or implied, actual or imagined.

Because it was never my intention to stray even one hair's breadth onto the wrong side of the law.

We went straight home. Nothin' but the tail lights, my friends.

Call me crazy but in the interest of staying out of trouble, I think I should go and have a lie-down.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Wednesday

Fifty million cards on the wall

I was at Wal-Mart recently, trolling the greeting card aisles for a couple of cards that would be both appropriate to the occasion and have the rare distinction of not costing more than the gifts they were intended to accompany. 

I mean, in a world where at least ten percent of the cards open up to actual music (I got one of those once ... it plays the theme from Pirates of the Caribbean), and some of those are so big they could double as pup tents and cost in excess of fifteen dollars, one is sorely tempted to simply hand the gift to its fortunate recipient and say: This is for you, from me. I do so hope you like it.

In my case on this particular day, both gift-giving, card-buying occasions involved the number fifty. One was for a couple in our church who recently celebrated fifty years of marriage (gift: two-color reed-diffused air freshener in vanilla cinnamon). The other was for a friend turning fifty about a week later (gift: wrinkle cream by Oil of Old Age).

This ground-breaking information has led to a whole new category of greeting cards

Just kidding about that last one. I haven't bought my friend a present yet.

I did briefly consider the card that, on the front, bore the message: Don't worry about the past because you can't change it. On the inside it elaborated: Don't worry about the present either, because I didn't get you one.

(Now, that's my kind of sentiment ... but I didn't pick that one because I do intend to buy a present for my friend. Probably a Waffle House gift card. Unless you know my friend and me and something of our antics, that won't resonate with you. So be it. Suffice it to say, they know us down at the Waffle House on Broad River Road.)

At any rate, my task should have been less challenging than toppling from a log; right?

Not so much.

Aside from the fact that, when it comes to cards, I tend to be cheap (normally I buy them for fifty cents apiece at Dollar General but on this day -- foolishly, as it turned out -- I wanted to make just the one stop at Wal-Mart), I am limited by other sensibilities not related to economy.

Namely, when it comes to greeting cards (and basically everything else), although I love a good guffaw as much as the next person, I don't do bathroom humor, booty-call humor, or booze humor. Basically because, to me, none of those things are remotely funny.

But that rules out approximately fifty percent of the cards!

How fitting.

So I'm looking around, slowly realizing how narrow my choices actually are, when I see them: an entire section of Back To School cards.

Back To School cards? Yes.

There were cards for starting day care, starting kindergarten, starting elementary school, starting middle school, starting high school, starting college. All starting at ninety-nine cents. All meant to "encourage" kids.

A visit to the Hallmark web site reveals that there has been a study done which proves once and for all that kids crave the encouragement of their moms (or significant other parental units).

I hope they didn't spend a lot of money on that study. For a mere fifty dollars, I could have told them that much about kids, and more. Cash, please.

But this ground-breaking information has led to a whole new category of greeting cards ... and Hallmark's helpful suggestions for how to use them (just in case the card-buying public cannot figure that out for themselves).

For example, parents are encouraged to Hide a card under a pillow just to say 'you're cool' or 'you're the best kid.'

Or to Tuck a card in a lunchbox or backpack to ease back-to-school butterflies.

Or to Slip a card under a bedroom door the morning of an important test, or have one ready after school that says 'I knew you could do it.'

Our being there in the flesh seemed to be what our children actually wanted

Or to Say how proud you are after the big game or recital in a card that can be kept for years on end.

Or to Fill your college kid's mailbox with cards and love from home.

(In the case of the college kid, don't forget to include a fifty-dollar bill or you're wasting your time. They won't cherish an empty card. Count on it.)

Even nestled as they were among thousands of cards available for every purpose from a deceased pet to a new salt shaker to an ingrown toenail, the staggering plethora of Back To School cards and Kid Encouragement cards set me reminiscing.

Each year in late August during my golden rule days, my parents demonstrated their support by buying me a pair of school shoes, a few new outfits from K-Mart, two or three notebooks, pencils, erasers, a ruler, a bottle of glue, a pack of looseleaf paper (that I was obliged to share with my sister), and similar supplies.

The only thing I wanted slipped under my pillow was that tooth-fairy money.

My parents never told me I was cool, or that I was the best kid. They provided for me, which was the crucial tip-off that they had a decent opinion of me. The onus was on me to excel, whether or not I thought it (or I) was "cool" or "the best."

(Which, incidentally, I didn't. Thank God for that. There's nothing worse than a bratty kid who thinks he's cool. As parents, I and the father of our four children forbade that kind of attitude at our house. We taught our children to obey the rules, show respect for themselves and others, be on time, keep their noses clean, pay attention, do their schoolwork, get involved in sports, and determine every day to serve both God and their fellow man. At the earliest possible moment, they were expected to get a job.)

When I went back to school each year I was put on the bus with my meager supplies and a bologna sandwich that may or may not have been sequestered within a nifty brown paper sack. I distinctly remember a time when we had no paper sacks at home, and my humble sandwich got wrapped in a scrap of aluminum foil. The other kids referred to me as "Tin Foil Lunch" for the rest of the year.

Not exactly the image I was going for.

I had more back-to-school butterflies than Carter's had liver pills, but I never got a card for it and I'm fairly certain that if I had, it would not have cleared my tummy of flighty lepidopterae. 

I was the perpetual new girl; card or no card, you still had to face the giants alone. I did sometimes get a hug as I was nudged toward the dreaded death-black rubber tread of the bus steps ... and on one occasion, I remember being so upset and stomach-achey on the first day of school that my mom let me go back home.

YESSSSSSSS!

I didn't have any big games or recitals, but if I had, it would have been understood at my house that I was expected to do my best even if nobody praised me (which, incidentally, when I succeeded at something, they did). My children participated both in big games (come to think of it, to us EVERY game was big) and recitals, but I am hard pressed to remember a single time I sent one of them a greeting card before, during, or after said event.

(What I did was, in every case, unless providentially hindered, I sat on the sidelines and prayed and clapped and cheered. As did their father. Strangely, our being there in the flesh seemed to be what our children actually wanted. In my memory no child of mine has ever pulled a long face because they were denied a greeting card.)

Don't let the door hit you on the way out

On the morning of a big test, my gut feeling was that I'd better have studied hard and prepared myself to get a good grade, or I was going to be called on the carpet for it. No smarmy store-bought sentiments were applied to the situation. Good grades were a given at my house; you got them or you faced the consequences. The idea was realizing your potential and, additionally, not shirking your duty. 

It was the lived-out reality of the concept that right is its own reward. It was the certainty that you weren't going to be mollycoddled into performing your reasonable service.

(My husband was reared the same way. I promise you he's none the worse for it, and neither am I, and neither are our children. In fact, we all benefited from the no-nonsense approach to character-driven, goal-oriented, non-negotiable personal responsibility and its usual outcome: achievement.)

Don't get me wrong; I'm not against sending greeting cards. I do it all the time. But whatever happened to looking into a person's eyes and TELLING them that you love them, or that you are praying for them, or that everything will work out fine, or that even if it doesn't, it won't be the end of the world?  Whatever happened to a pat on the back, a hug, a sincere hand-holding, a wink and a smile?

These days if you're not getting a text message it's a phone message and if you're not getting a phone call it's an email and if you're not getting an email you pretty much feel forgotten.

Further scanning of Hallmark's web site revealed that, if you feel the urge to send a greeting card but lack the time to do it yourself, the company will sign, stamp, and send the card for you. For all I know, they'll pick it out too. Just put in your credit card number and it's all taken care of with a click. 

Call me crazy (many have), but doesn't it defeat the purpose of sending a card in the first place when you engage the services of a corporate entity to sign and mail it? I'm not feeling the love.

And then there are e-cards ... a whole new domain in manufactured greetings. I actually like these and use them a good bit. The animation is fun and there's no denying it is convenient and cost-effective. People enjoy receiving them.

But recently I got an email from an e-card outfit touting their Spanish-language cards and insisting that I wanted to send one of them! A Spanish-language card, that is.

Only problem is ... No. I. Do. Not.

I speak English. I do not speak Spanish. Why would I? I am an American and as such, English is my mother tongue. English is the language of our country. I daresay if I lived in a country where Spanish is the primary language, I would have to learn it or else make some very costly mistakes until I did. 

That's what the Spanish-speaking people in America should do: LEARN TO SPEAK ENGLISH.

And reverence this great country, instead of merely living off her. Or else, leave.

And then there's Exhale, the outfit that specializes in "post-abortion" services, to include treacly e-cards. 

(Because "systems in our country are oppressive.")

There are six choices, featuring pictures of sunsets and flowers and cut-out hearts and all manner of sweetness and light, with messages such as Healing is possible. May you find peace after your abortion.

God help us. May we find peace after visiting the greeting card aisle, virtual or otherwise.

And that is all for now.

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This article was originally posted on August 13, 2009

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Happy Tuesday

Come fly with me

Photo courtesy Brittany Weber

Our son, Andrew, has served in the Tennessee Air National Guard since 2007.

From Airman he progressed to Staff Sergeant and then to his current rank of Tech Sergeant.

He has also been a boom operator (in-flight air refueler) for several years -- how many I can't really say, but I think it has been since around 2013.

At any rate, he has excelled at that endeavor while eventually also working a full-time "real" job and getting married and starting a family with his lovely wife, Brittany.

Last Friday, Andrew flew his last mission as a boom operator with the 134th Air Refueling Wing.

At the end of this month, he will begin Officer Training School at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery, Alabama, from which he will emerge several weeks later as a Second Lieutenant.

Then he will begin training as a pilot.

In a few years he'll be flying the Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker aircraft on which for these years he has functioned as in-flight refueler.

Moving from the back of the plane to the front, as it were.

Brittany texted me on Friday as she and little Ember waited on the tarmac at McGhee Tyson Air National Guard Base in Knoxville, for Andrew's flight to land.

A short while later she sent me the above picture, which in my opinion ranks among the top three photographs ever taken since time began.

It figures that Andrew's baby can fly, taking to the air as though she were born to sail above the earth.

With a little help from Daddy.

Daddy's little girl

There is a lesson in these pictures, about trusting the one who loves us, and who has all the strength we lack.

Godspeed Andrew. May the skies be fair whenever and wherever you go, and may your beloveds always be watching those same skies for your safe return.

Thank you for your service. You're a true American hero.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday

Celebrating with a cast of characters

Six in the Mix

Here I am to tell you about yet another recent family celebration. You may remember that I threatened to do this so don’t say you were not warned.

This one also centers around Dagny Clare, who, I would like to point out, is only one of our five grandchildren. She’s the next-to-youngest, the only child of our middle daughter, Audrey.

Here's your sign

The others (children of our eldest daughter, Stephanie, and her husband Joel) are Melanie Noel, our special-needs darling, who is fifteen; Allissa Joy, her sister, who is twelve; and Andrew Joel, their brother, who is eight. They live in North Carolina.

The youngest is Ember Rae, eight months, who lives in East Tennessee and is the daughter of our son Andrew (baby of our family) and his wife, Brittany.

Our Ember :: photo courtesy Brittany Weber

Our Erica (youngest daughter) and her husband Chad have, for the moment, no children.

I got a piece of anonymous (isn’t it always?) hate mail several years ago, accusing me of not caring about my other grandchildren and of writing only about Dagny. 

Poodle Doodle

Which is absurd on its face and patently false.

However, if I publish fewer photos of the North Carolina and Tennessee grands, and more of Dagny, it’s only because Dag is the only one of the five who lives locally. 

These six years have been a blur

We see her several times a week and spend a lot of time together.

Being with the others is possible only once every few months, and our times together are brief, and I admit I don’t always get around to taking a great number of pictures. We’re too busy enjoying one another’s company.

Daughter Stephanie and family

Or if I do get the shots, I don’t always feel like sharing them. Somehow being so few, they seem more private. 

However, three years ago when each of the older grandchildren spent one week of their summer with me, I did do on-purpose location photo shoots and told you all about our weeks.

Lots to smile about

If you're so inclined, you can read about these past occasions here, here, here, and here.

At any rate, we always get together with each of our grandchildren on their birthdays, for a party. I mentioned one such occasion back in February, when grandson Andrew was the honoree.

He turned eight

Historically, for the past several years, we have met at restaurants on the North Carolina/South Carolina state line (Carowinds Exit — basically Charlotte) for many of the kids’ birthday celebrations.

(In fact for my next birthday-centric post, I think I’ll tell you about how it was when we did that for Allissa’s birthday party a few months ago. Most interesting tale. Trust me; you can’t wait.) 

Our Andrew and his girls :: photo courtesy Brittany Weber

We did that a few years ago for Dagny’s party too — met for a meal at Cracker Barrel, in fact; that was the year she got a now long-dead Betta fish from Uncle Andrew and Aunt Brittany — but most years, Dagny’s parties have been held at our house. 

Such was the case this year, when she turned six.

Delighted with developments

Since her birthday is in mid-June (Flag Day, the same day as President Trump’s), the party almost always includes swimming and cooking out. 

This year we didn’t cook out (I cooked in), but my parents came from Greenville, and there was swimming. The children are keen for summer splashing and indeed, the Tar Heel contingent are planning one more swimming visit before school starts in a few weeks.

A pink and purple confection

Many months before the actual date, Audrey and I had chosen a theme: Black and White. It was inspired by some cheap but cute party ware I saw at Dollar Tree.

Plus which, not long ago Erica had bought Dagny a pink poodle skirt, and we decided that the birthday girl would wear that, thus providing the necessary pop of color amid all the blanc noir decorations and outfits.

Happy Birthday Dagny

(The rest of us girls decided to wear black and white, just to be consistent.)

I took several shots of Dagny in my studio, as part of our traditional Official Birthday Photo Shoot.

We're all set

Dagny loves to change clothes several times a day. She only wore the striped top and poodle skirt for a while, before sporting a different outfit.

Several days before the party, TG and I were shopping at Big Lots for patriotic decorations and stuff for the kids to use in the pool.

Our intentions are clear

I spotted a tallish bristly-fluffy flamingo wearing a fedora and sunglasses, and decided that he was a natural to provide the same necessary pop of color on our black and white birthday table scape.

Only, he was twelve dollars and TG was shall we say approaching his limit, so I quickly texted Audrey, who said she’d fund the purchase. So I grabbed it. 

We get our cakes at Publix

It was the last flamingo standing.

And just as I’d envisioned, he was truly perfect for the birthday table. We plan to haul him out for all of the home birthday bashes from now on — no matter what the season. 

It's not a party without balloons

Aunt Stephanie and the Tar Heel cousins were in attendance, and after the meal, gift bags covered one end of the table. 

TG insists that Dagny read every card aloud before she opens the associated gift.

Birthday moments

After all of that was accomplished, there was a last special gift that had to be set up in the front room and kept secret from Dagny until time for the big reveal.

This large item had been kept in Chad and Erica’s storage room and brought over in the bed of their pickup truck, and brought inside my house while others kept Dagny distracted elsewhere.

The best part about this gift is that it was free — at least, to us. A friend of Audrey’s gave it to Dagny because her granddaughters had outgrown it. 

There were cotton candy canisters

We all trooped into the front room, making Dagny wait until last. I have no pictures of this; I was taking video with my phone.

Use your imagination and with your mind’s eye, see Dagny as she realized that her final gift was a Barbie Dream House.

This is a big-deal item with the six-to-twelve set.

Dagny ran to Allissa for a hug of sheer joy, and then they both began inspecting the pink plastic Barbie abode.

Ready for my six-year-old summer

Several times a week, the two of them play together via Face Time. My guess is that the Barbie Dream House will figure largely in their playtime for quite a while.

(The same lady who donated the Barbie Dream House had already given Dagny the Barbie Luxury Camper in Pepto-Bismol pink. For weeks it had been going with Dagny everywhere she went except to church. If we’d let her, she would have taken it there too.)

It's all in the cards

After the hubbub surrounding the Barbie Dream House acquisition had died down, we had our cake and the kids went back outside to swim some more.

The next day was Sunday and Dagny's actual birthday. After church we all went to Cracker Barrel for lunch.

Waiting for our table

I have discovered that there is wonderful light for photos to be had at Cracker Barrel -- both on the front porch, and inside at tables positioned in windows (I always ask for such a table).

It's the generous overhang of the porch that provides just enough cover, with lots of creamy light pouring in on the subject.

The iPhone 11 portrait mode doesn't hurt either. Don't forget to use the studio light setting within portrait mode.

We love being together

These photos were edited very little, if at all.

Mommy and me on my sixth birthday

Once inside, the large windows, with the relative darkness of the restaurant beyond, makes for great photography light too.

For this one of me with Dagny, I edited in portrait mode to get the black background, after the picture had already been taken. Besides that, it's unedited.

Give us a birthday hug

See the difference in the light if your subject is seated with the window behind them? These have to be edited rather heavily and even then, the light is not ideal.

Papaw loves Dagny

But in this case, the shots of Dagny with Papaw are priceless.

What did you say Papaw?

After a delicious meal, we headed back to our house where Dagny changed into the LOL Surprise dress that TG and I had given her as a birthday gift.

Feeling like big six

The clever graphics and multi-layered tulle skirt made this present a real hit. Our Dagny is a miniature clothes horse.

Meanwhile back at their house, Dagny and Audrey have had to practically redesign Dagny's room to fit the Barbie Luxury Camper and Dream House onto the floor, with room left over to walk.

That child has beaucoup toys. It's a challenge.

My future is as bright as my smile

Speaking of challenges, in just a few days it's time to go back to school with new CCP virus rules and restrictions.

I know these kids are up to it, and eager to begin, but I feel for them anyway.

God bless the children, and those who love, care for, and teach them.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday :: Happy August