The delicacy of a flower

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I have mentioned already how my Grandma loved to garden. Not only did she have an overly large and abundant vegetable garden, she also had flowers everywhere. To walk around the farm you find many little areas that had rock gardens tucked here and there. Heritage flowers that were hardy filled her beds. Early summer mornings would find her outside, rollers in her hair and a housecoat on (this is easy to get away with in the country!). She would have a cup of coffee in her hand and she would wander the farm yard. Looking at the flowers that had buds on them, seeing which had opened up for her to see all of their beauty. Most of the flowers she liked were not flowers that I would say were on my list of favourites, however she did have peonies. Peonies, along with Hydrangeas are my favourite flowers. I wish I could have peonies in my house all year long. They curl their ruffled petals to show their beautiful colour. They are lady like in appearance. They also rely on sugar ants to open. Just like we need our heavenly father to help us grow and gain everlasting strength of character, peonies need ants to develop into a delicate work of beauty.

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I am finding that a lot as of late. That the beauty and character that are within me are nothing without the help of God. He molds me. He sustains me. If only I could look at myself as a Peony needed the ants to open it to it’s full glory, perhaps I would not be so critical of myself. If I just let go and trusted that He would help me in all the areas of my life. Perhaps I need to remind myself of the little ants, fulfilling a larger picture that they know nothing about.
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The call of the land~31 Days of Heritage

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He is my mom’s youngest sibling. The one who stayed on the farm and continued on the farm way of life. He has a sense of humour and always has a smile on his face. Even in the hardest of times, he tilts his head to the side, smiles a tight lipped smile and says something utterly goofy.
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I adore that he has the same love for animals that I do. That personality trait that gives animals names, and people like qualities. To look at any animal in the field and to hear how it likes to be fed first with its food in a certain bowl, or how it gets stiff when the weather turns cold. To know who are the protective mommas and who are more diva like in their natures. I love going for visits. The two of us are the only ones who call our home the country. Living outside of the business of the city. I feel the call of the land as it is so often dubbed. It speaks to my heart. Like a whisper in the wind.
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For the love of a bird~31 days of Heritage

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It was always easy to sit at any of Grandma’s windows with a cup of hot chocolate or coffee and watch the birds. Both Grandma and Grandpa loved the birds. They had many little feeders tucked here and there. Some were big basins full of sunflower seeds, others were tiny little feeders of copper for the little sparrows to perch and pick away at the littlest of seeds.
Some feeders were hidden in the trees so well that the only way to know there was a feeder there was from the pile of shells that lay scattered on the ground below.
I never really understood what was so interesting about the birds. I know now that it wasn’t about what was so interesting but rather about what was so relaxing. Watching the birds gives you an opportunity to sit, quietly. It forces you to relax and unwind. I appreciate that my Grandparents did this and that they passed this hobby on to their kids and grandkids.
I now too can sit and watch the birds out my own window, relaxed and content. Always I will think about my Grandparents, even if it is a fleeting thought.

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Old Photographs

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What would we do if we had no photographs of days gone by? Would the stories that define our family traditions hold as much merit as they do with photos to go side? Would our memories of events from days in our past be so crisp in our minds if we didn’t have photos to sharpen those mental images?

Would you remember that Grandma had a shag rug in the basement? Or that the couches in the TV room were orange? How about that horrible haircut you had for school photos in grade 2, the one that looked like your mother placed a bowl on your head and cut all the way around?

I know for myself that I probably would not remember things as well without photos. They are proof of events and the people who were at them. They document our days and save them for future generations. It saddens me when I go to an antique store or a garage sale to find a box of vintage photos. The people in them are sometimes known and sometimes not. I love to look at them and day dream about who they were and what their stories were. Both my mom and I collect old photos. We are always looking for old albums or boxes containing them, hidden away somewhere.

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Old photos are a recollection of someone, somewhere at sometime, that can never be forgotten as long as the photo still exists. I think that is why as a photographer I love my job so much. I am not only giving families of today something to treasure, I am giving the members in generations to come a chance to look back and see the heritage they posses.

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Kacie - October 15, 2014 - 2:46 pm

Oh yes, seeing old photos in antique shops makes me so sad… And a few years ago, my mom and I really got into this kick of buying them, all of which we still have. I think of it as rescuing other people’s ancestors. :) Of all antiques, photos are one of my absolute favorites.

That old farm~31 Days of Heritage

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Have you ever driven by an old farm site and wondered about the people who once lived there? Where did they go that caused the farm to sit empty and become an abandoned old building?

I love old farm sites. I can feel a fluttering in my chest when I walk through the empty buildings. To stand in an abandoned farm house kitchen and see the colors of the cupboards, painted many times, faded and covered with dirt, gives you an insight to the woman who once labored with her hands to bring food to her families mouths.

I can see her standing there. She has on an old worn out apron on over her dress. Her hands are the hands of a woman who has put the needs of her family first.

I admire her.

I admire her because she has endured hardship like we do not know but through all the hardships and trials she has loved her life. She has been happy with having nothing fancy or frivolous, nothing of value other than her family.

Looking back around the old farmhouse you see a story unfold. One that revolves around a man and a woman, that same woman that stood in the kitchen and worked so hard.

Somewhere that woman has great grandchildren. Do they know who she was? Do they stand in this falling down building ever and see her? I hope so. I hope that for every abandoned farm house that scatters our landscape there is a family who carries the tales from generation to generation.

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