A Red Remembrance

“Love for the beauty of the soul.
I shall love you always.
When the flower of life has gone,
ever I shall find you.
When all is lost and winter comes,
I shall be your spring time.
And memory fades and wilts then,
I shall always find you….
I shall always find you….”
― Laurel A. Rockefeller,
The Ghosts of the Past

The bromeliads by my front porch are in bloom and they remind me of my grandmother. She would always get so excited when they bloomed; she loved the big red cones of color this particular species puts out. They last only a few days in the Florida heat, but I enjoy every minute they make the path to my door a little brighter. I hope you like the photo.

"A Red Remembrance", Nikon D800, ISO 400, f/5.6 at 1/250sec., 300mm

“A Red Remembrance”, Nikon D800, ISO 400, f/5.6 at 1/250sec., 300mm

Photographing people, places, pets and ponderings.

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Left Behind

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and
sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.
– John Betjeman

Nikon D300, ISO 200, 6 sec at f/22, 35 mm

This post is in honor of my grandmother, who passed away yesterday at the age of 99. She was an amazing woman, living on her own and keeping socially active to the end. We were very close; I will miss her and our phone calls and chats which, invariably, consisted of her complaining that she’d barely gotten out of the house that week although she’d been to craft club and church and out to lunch and …

I’ll never forget the time about 5 years ago I tried to encourage her to buy new curtains for her living room. The ones that had hung there since the early 70’s were finally, visibly, falling apart. She looked at me and reminded me that formal drapes were expensive and she needed to save her money for when she got old. THAT’s the spirit that kept her going and that I hope I inherited.

She was so looking forward to turning 100 in November; she’d been talking about it since the day she turned 99. She’d tell anyone and everyone how old she was, after proudly asking them to guess her age for themselves. It’s okay, Granny; considering the life you lived and how close you came, we’ll just tell everyone you made it.

Sleep well until we embrace again. I love you.

Phyllis A. Mueller (aka “Granny”)
November 6, 1912 – July 2, 2012