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My daughter Chelsea and her family took a vacation to the French Alps— fresh air, cooler weather, green hills, and the peace that comes with wide open spaces, and high places.
Here are some photos from their journey: two little ones hiking beside their parents, step by step, soaking in the experience.
My mom has such a quiet way. She notices the small things— a flower just opening, a stem leaning too far, a bloom past its prime but still with grace. She gathers a few blooms, never many. Whatever her garden offers. A sprig of lavender. A daisy. Sometimes mint. She places them in a little old bottle, places it just...
Coming home is a quiet kind of reckoning. The road curves the same way, but the view is different. My mother — just shy of ninety — still makes pies with the same steady hands, rolling dough like she always has, as if the years haven’t touched her apron strings.
We used to pick blackberries bags full, pulling over where...
My Godmother Mary has always had a way of lighting up the room before she even steps into it. Her home, once brimming with color and curious little things, felt like walking into a story. Every corner whispered charm, a kind of order that could only come from chaos lovingly arranged. You never left her house empty-handed—not with objects,...
