This is one of my favourite childhood photos — sitting in front of the milk house with my grandfather. I was one year old at the time it was taken. The photo sits in a curio cabinet among other small treasures. I often stop to visit it there. When I close my eyes, I see the milk house as clearly as if I am in front of it now. Continue reading “Feeling Nostalgiac — The Milk House and the Farm Dog”
Hands are a living narrative written by a lifetime of use. There is a story recorded in every weathered crease, a lament in every callous and an anecdote in every scar. Our hands have toiled and cared for others. They’ve admonished and loved. They’ve conveyed exasperation, underscored points of debate, wiped away tears, and applauded revelry. They’ve held on and they’ve let go. Continue reading “The Meaning of Hands”