Worth Repeating

When I am excited about something, I have a tendency to repeat myself.

And since Fall has provided us with beautiful colors this year—and I consider

that to be terribly exciting—I am sharing a few more fall photos. 

The woodpile-bigger-than-my-dog shot is a favorite due to

its painterly appearance but each photo has its own special qualities.

I never tire of this photo showing the lane leading to the back

acreage. Click on the photo to view a larger version. 

Bursting milkweed pod is a fall favorite but this one was loaded

with oncopeltus fasciatus, a.k.a. milkweed bugs. Nast!!

I sighted a Mule hiding in the brush. This one happened

to have a steering wheel. Hee haw!!

With color at every turn, I make effort to ignore certain things. But, since my

 brain doesn't allow such nonsense, I usually return for a photo.

I removed brambles and brush and dug a campfire pit to create this campsite.

There is a semi-cleared pathway that leads to the creek on the far right.

Matisse must have made a visit. 

Magnificent colors.

An unplanned adoption allowed this good-natured black lab

to spend her days exploring wide open spaces. Lucky dog!

Matissed once again.

A calming color palette,

and an empty nest.

Her nose knows no peace. Busy, busy, busy.

Winding Down

Let me savor the warmth of this day;

feast upon the golden ash and blazing red maple,

the rainbow streaked sky.

Let me feast today;

for tomorrow it will all be gone.

Dirty Dish Doer

Some photos linger in my brain until they are put to task. This picture of my granddaughter, Lydia, washing dishes is one of them. She turned 12 on this particular day and she insisted on cleaning my dishes. To make her case, she said that she would wash each dish "two or three times."

Who am I to argue when presented with such a generous offer?

Unlike Lydia, who thoroughly enjoys the process of washing dishes, I would do practically anything as a child to avoid the task. Even though I am now a fully grown adult-like person, I still feel a slight twinge of dread when faced with a pile of dirty dishes. 

Oddly so, memories of my dad often surface when I'm elbow deep in dirty dishwater.

My dad was a working man in earlier years: a factory worker by day and farmer by night. Washing dishes was not something he did. But, change happens, as was the case with my mom and dad, who eventually went their own ways. Years later, I recall a time when I visited my dad and his lady companion at their home. I realized how much dad had truly changed when he cheerfully served coffee to my husband and I and talked about  how he enjoyed washing dishes.