a love letter of sorts

to summer, which is not over, not even close, even though we've been tricked into thinking it is, second week of school and all. 

and to lightning bugs, which I never ever (ever) get tired of, even after 48 years of living. gimme all the humidity in the world if it means I get lightning bugs every summer.

anyway, this is what I watch when I'm riddled with anxiety (which, unfortunately, is often these days). this little film I made three years ago is what I watch when it feels like I'm drowning. 

218/365

songs that go on every single summer mix I make:

sweet thing (van morrison)
here comes the sun (nina simone)
make you feel that way (blackalicious, tor/sufjan stevens remix)
rill rill (sleigh bells)
swim team (arms and sleepers)
gold silver diamond (generationals)
genius of love (tom tom club)
happier than the morning sun (stevie wonder)

215/365

potential 2019 summer themes:

summer of the disco camping lantern
summer of the homemade strawberry sheet cake
summer of the great sun tea experiment
summer of the time I finally got my bike repaired
summer of the time it was a million degrees outside but we went peach picking anyway
summer of the time it was a million degrees outside but we went blackberry picking anyway
summer of the neverending tent sleepover
summer of my cherry lemonade hack
summer of my garden obsession
summer of my topo chico obsession
summer of my stripey shirt obsession
summer of the big kick the can revival
summer of the string lights I couldn't stop buying and hanging
summer of the time we finally blew up that big popsicle pool float we bought two years ago
summer of the time we finally found the secret waterfall
summer of the time we finally went back to the drive-in
summer of our garden sprinkler revival
summer of at least a dozen sno-cones, maybe more
summer of ava never not blowing bubbles

204/365

other things done on the first day of summer:

followed a butterfly around the garden for a few minutes
inspected the cherry tomatoes, noticed spots
googled said spots
rubbed a few mint leaves between my fingers, inhaled
contemplated sprinklers
contemplated how good it might feel to run through one
contemplated water balloons
contemplated, that is all
purchased a small watermelon
purchased a quart of ice cream, rainbow jimmies
called my dad, sang happy birthday
celebrated my parents 50th wedding anniversary in my own small way
baked a strawberry cake with strawberries I picked myself
thought about how much my mom would have loved that
ate dinner outside
ate strawberry cake
set up that tent

(the rest, of course, you already know)

203/365

done on the first day of summer:

bought a tent, on a whim
put up said tent in the backyard
marveled at the beauty and wonder of this tent
wondered why we have lived a tentless life for so many years
spread a plethora of sheets and pillows inside
ran a cord from the house to the tent for the small lamp I felt I simply must have
laid down inside with the kids, stared up at the sky
watched lightning bugs and the occasional airplane overhead 
then, miraculously, a shooting star
listened to the sound of cicadas and crickets and frogs, an impossible chorus
consumed sweet and sour twizzlers 
drank ice water out of jam jars
brought in air mattresses, blankets, more pillows
contemplated movies for watching
settled in for the night
saw flashes of heat lightning in the distance 
saw flashes of regular lightning even closer, heard thunder
felt the wind pick up, the beginnings of a storm
made a run for the house

(happy summer solstice, friends)

june's sixty seconds

err, 156 seconds. because june needed more than 60 seconds. because, summer. so maybe I'll shove this little film in the freezer with the strawberry freezer jam I made this year, the jam we're trying so hard not to eat right now because we know how good it will taste in january. maybe I'lll grab it six months from now when we're squarely lodged in the middle of january. maybe that's what I'll do.

(more lovely summer films over at the sixty second photograph, a project I've been participating in since the beginning of the year)

(music is swim team by arms and sleepers and I love them, I love them a lot)

may's five

(one)

(two)

(three)

(four)

(five)

one: promising skies, folks. the promising skies of may.

two: well, they finally gave me the mother's day parade I've been teasing them about for years. and it was pretty much the best present ever.

three: just moments before ava took the stage (along with the other dancers from my class) at the big show down at the old rialto theatre.

four: the scent of honeysuckle means one thing and one thing only: summer. is. almost. here.

five: first honeysuckle, then the strawberries. THEN THE STRAWBERRIES.

(five favorite frames from may, five favorite frames each month) (many thanks to my friend xanthe for the inspiration)

summer manifesto

kids, it's officially the first day of summer. I do believe this calls for a manifesto. 

this summer, we will:

eat strawberry shortcake
made with strawberries we pick.

catch lightning bugs in jars,
then set them all free.

roll up to the starlight drive-in on a week night,
stay for the second feature.

add to our crazy pool float collection
with nary a thought to the practical.

celebrate ezra's twelfth birthday with go-kart races
and secret rainbow cakes.

visit the local farmers market,
refuse to buy even one tomato from the grocery store.

build complicated forts in the backyard
using only what we have on hand.

make ginormous bubbles from scratch,
bubbles that will impress even the teenagers.

spend a saturday morning at the yard sales, 
buy the weird things.

pick blackberries and blueberries 
til our fingers are way stained.

float on our backs in the ocean,
wish for it to last forever.

scour the beach for shells, 
glue them to bobby pins and wear them in our hair,
think we are really cool.

explore the old oakland cemetery at dusk,
be not afraid.

sit under bright-colored umbrellas at lotta frutta,
drink exotic fruity drinks.

watch old movies at the old fox theatre, 
sing along with mighty mo.

set fireworks off at the beach,
lament the state of our country.

start at least one giant water balloon fight, 
end it before it gets ugly. 

sample every single sonic slushie flavor,
you know, for science.

say hi to olga and her house of stuff,
eat lemon ice cream cones.

climb the tiovivo sculptures at the high,
snapchat from the insides.

look at all the things at the high
when it's too hot to climb inside the sculptures.

find the hidden falls, 
pat selves on back.

keep scissors in the glove compartment at all times
for the flowers that grow alongside the highway.

make cherry limeade popsicles from scratch,
make enough to share.

visit the ponce city market rooftop,
see what we can see.

celebrate ava's sweet sixteen with a pretty cake
and, an alien-shaped cake, per her request.

hit the road and drive south,
hop on the train and head north.

see a few new places,
revisit a handful of the old ones.

perfect all underwater handstands,
make time for night swimming.

stand in the middle of a sunflower field
for as long as they will let us.

stand at the base of toccoa falls
when it's too hot to stand anywhere else.

eat popsicles and read books
in great quantities.

lay in the hammock 
everyday.

everyday.

summer

that week just after school lets out, when you're finally off that blasted hamster-wheel schedule and your whole family just sort of melts into the new schedule, the non-schedule, the late late morning schedule, the all afternoon book-reading, all night movie-watching, strawberry-picking, lightning bug-catching, up late late at night schedule.

that's the week we're living in right now. and I love it (for all the obvious reasons) but mostly, I love it because things feel... possible. we're making the big summer list, we're excited and friends, we've had some sleep. we're rested. for the love of mary, we finally feel rested.

make no mistake, there's work still to be done (always), dishes still pile up in the sink and laundry still piles up on the floor of every single room of this freaking house but it doesn't feel so hard. because, I can breathe again. we can all breathe again.

hashtag summer

I did not paint the rest of the rooms in the house white this summer like I said I would. I did not read the half dozen books on my summer reading list. I did not pick strawberries or blueberries or even blackberries and make all the things with them like I wanted to. I did not plant flowers or tomatoes, did not throw the big backyard party to celebrate one year back home in atlanta, did not unpack the rest of the many boxes that now permanently live in the garage, did not meticulously archive all the family photographs. I did not, I did not, I did not. there were a lot of things on my summer list. there were a lot of things I did not do.

instead, I watched ezra float on his back in the ocean for the very first time. I laid in the resurrected hammock in the backyard and watched the quiet blink of the season's first lightning bugs. I cut bouquets of black-eyed susans from the side of the highway with a pair of scissors I started to carry in my purse once I noticed those happy roadside clumps of yellow start to pop up. I watched ava ride her bike down the road towards the local library, where she volunteered every tuesday and thursday afternoon. and I beamed with pride.

I covered the living room floor with a mess of quilts and blankets for epic cousin sleepovers and listened to them argue about which movies they were going to watch while I jiggled pan after pan of jiffy pop over a hot stove. I hustled to get us ready for the drive-in, packed more sheets and pillows and treats in the trunk of the car than we knew what to do with, prayed for rainless nights. I hung string lights between the two big trees in the backyard, spray-painted the old metal lawn chairs bright red, roasted marshmallows till they were burnt beyond recognition, slapped (in vain) at a thousand mosquitos and played croquet with the family til dark. I sang along with mighty mo, that magnificent old organ down at the old fox theatre. I gave the kids pennies to throw in the fountains at fellini's and they wished for things. I did too.

I spent entire afternoons and evenings talking with friends-- old friends, new friends, from portland and atlanta, about nothing, about everything. I braved the smoky clermont lounge with said friends and came home with stories of strippers with vacant eyes. I picked up my ukulele again, turned a cartwheel to see if I could still do it (as it turns out, I can) and baked my mom's gooey butter cake exactly twice. I finally met dear mollie and the greene family, let dot and lola cover me with every stuffed animal they own upon our arrival, watched ezra and jude become fast friends and fell in love with aaron's mamiya rz67 the second he put it in my hands and so graciously let me shoot with it.

I swam in the ocean for the first time in years, felt the prickly underside of a sea star with my fingers, felt a thousand jangly shells wash up around my feet. I shelled and shelled and shelled and then I shelled some more. I collected more shells than I knew what to do with, learned all the proper names for them and then realized I will probably be The Old Woman With All Of The Shells. this is okay with me, really. I wondered why we have never owned a rainbow beach umbrella before now or why it took me so long to buy a big floppy straw hat. on impulse, I bought an enormous inflatable pink donut to bring to the pool and it was maybe the best thing I bought all summer. except for the actual real life pink donut that seemed to be an exact replica of the float, which we ate but not before we took a hundred pictures of it. we watched fireworks on the beach, felt them explode all around us and decided this is what it must feel like to live inside a roman candle. I drank frozen lemonade slurpees from 7-11 pretty much everyday and watched the sky turn bright pink pretty much every night and I never wanted it to end, never wanted to leave. does anyone? ever?

I surprised my dad a week before his 69th birthday with a family party, his favorite banana cake and as many candles as we could fit on top of it, celebrated ezra's 11th on the 11th (the golden birthday!) and hit the road for ava's 15th, where we stacked a dozen donuts on a paper plate, fifteen sparkler candles on top and sang to her outside a motel room in nashville, tennessee. I took her to the nashville fleamarket for the first time that weekend, just like my mom did when I was fifteen. and I saw my 15 year-old self in her at least a dozen times that day, saw my mom around every corner, went backwards and forwards in time so much so I nearly forgot where I was. at some point, it hit me. I'd have just three summers left with her before she heads off to college. three summers before she's officially off and running into the world. the realization of this nearly brought me to my knees and I spent the rest of the summer planning all the trips we'd need to take before that inevitable day.

I watched ezra at my dad's basketball camp, watched him do all the drills I remember watching my dad do with hundreds of players at camp after summer camp for so many years. I wanted to cry at the sight of it, but didn't. I took photographs instead. I spent hours sifting through stacks of books and dishes and junk with ava at a handful of thrift shops in the small town where my dad lives. we navigated sweltering, precarious aisles at our beloved olga's house of stuff and came home with more than I'd care to admit. and on the way back home, I drove through the small southern illinois town where I lived when I was little and marveled at the way it all came back to me-- the time I won a banana split from dairy queen for kickball MVP, the public pool where I learned to swim, the slide and swings at the park my dad took us to most every night, the high school where my dad coached basketball, the way queen always seemed to be playing in that big, beautiful old cavernous gym, the old movie theatre that played saturday night fever (which I was not allowed to see) and the library my mom took us to weekly, the library where I first fell in love with books. it all came roaring back in an instant and as we hopped back on the highway and headed towards home and the kids lost themselves in books and video games, I felt an ache so deep it was all I could do to keep from pulling the car over to the side of the road.

I ate peach pies and chili dogs from the varsity with the kids, thick slices of sicilian from fellini's, strawberry popsicles from las paletas, pimento cheese dogs from I dream of weenie, cheeseburgers and lemon ice cream cones from krekel's and late night waffles from the one and only waffle house. tiny cherry tomatoes from the church community garden were devoured and I believe we consumed our actual weight in peaches. we drank strawberry lemonade and blueberry lemonade and raspberry lemonade and lemonade lemonade. I wondered if there is such a thing as too much lemonade. as it turns out, there is not.

I spied ruby red cardinals and bluebirds just outside my window, monarch butterflies and the swoop of an occasional bat, too. I wondered if it's true what they say about butterflies and cardinals, that when one flies near you, it's the spirit of someone you love. I'm not sure I believe this but I held onto it this summer, because I wanted to. I wanted to believe my mom could fly near me, could be as close as just outside my window. I watched the meteor shower with ezra and thought my eyes might pop out of my head when I saw two streak across the sky, one after another. my neck hurt from all the looking up but it was worth it.

and so now I'll need to make a new list, a list for fall. there will probably be a lot of things on it I won't end up doing either. but that's okay, because now I know. the best things, the very best things are never on the list.

cities, states, colors

red // portland, oregon


red // portland, oregon


yellow // crescent city, california


pink // shady cove, oregon


green // somewhere in texas


green // somewhere in new mexico


purple // palm springs, california


purple // atlanta, georgia


orange // palm springs, california


orange // palm springs, california


blue // tucumcari, new mexico

this time, color//colour lovers stretched itself out over perhaps the seven craziest weeks of my life-- beginning with our last two weeks in portland and ending with our first few weeks in atlanta. sandwiched in between: a magnificent two-week road trip across the country. seven different colors from nine different cities and five different states, all collected with the iphone because that's just about all I could handle. actually, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to handle that much but I had to try. I absolutely had to try.

(more over at color//colour lovers, specifically from my partner in color crime, ms. xanthe b)

silence hereby broken

let me interrupt the quiet here with a few things.

over the summer, ava turned fourteen. ava turned fourteen, started high school and the moment she walked through those heavy front doors, my heart dropped all the way down to my knees. ezra is now a decade old, a bonafide top-of-the-food-chain fifth grader. a few boxes got unpacked, a few hundred didn't. lightning bugs flew around, I got pretty excited about it and the first time I heard the roar of the cicadas at dusk here in the south, I wanted to cry. old friends and family stopped by the new house and I watched (with a lump in my throat) while my dad taught ezra how to shoot a basketball. the beginning of a path was forged between our house and the cousins' house, as it is now merely steps away. for the first time in life, we live on the same street as family. and what we have now, between the two houses, is a compound-- a wildly wonderful, mildly chaotic compound, with a trampoline in one backyard and a homemade fire pit in the other and a lot of overgrown trees in between. also, there's a neighborhood swimming pool and we have the toasty brown chlorine-scented skin to prove it. that chlorine is baked in, folks. additionally, the public library on the corner was visited, new library cards secured and several trips made to the sonic drive-in just up the street. we're sonic people now. I'm not afraid to say it.

a few walls were painted white, in a feeble attempt to cover up some of the beige in the new house. there's a lot of beige. did I mention the beige? BECAUSE THERE'S A LOT OF BEIGE. we are going to need more white paint. we are possibly going to need to start a savings account for all the white paint. still, I find I enjoy the challenge. I putter around the house on my off days, wander from room to room, head crazy with ideas. secret pinterest boards have been created, books have been checked out. I enjoy finding new places for our things, I take my time with it. I do my best thinking when I'm messing with the placement of books, plants and pictures, when I'm moving furniture and lamps around. but this is also when I miss my mom the most. with every new home we've moved into, she was there. she was the one (the only one, really) who'd listen to me go on and on about house stuff, the only one who'd help me exhaust every possible paint/rug/pillow/table/lamp/curtain/plant option. endlessly, tirelessly. and she would love the new house. she would scoff at all the beige, the staggering amount of boob light fixtures but she would see straight through all the crap, she would see the possibilities. she would listen to me yammer on about bargain pendant lamps and thrifted mexican blankets, she would understand. and you know what else? she would help me paint.

we found our thrift shop, our donut shop, our bargain theatre. I found my camera shop, my crazy camera guy. we're nowhere near our old, familiar atlanta neighborhood and it's a little like starting over. everything is new is old is new again. we'd barely unpacked our suitcases before we went barreling down ponce to hit up all our favorite old spots. movies at the plaza, slices at fellini's, ice cream cones at zesto. long drives around our fair old city revealed that nothing has changed, not really. but everything is different. trees tower over places in ways we don't remember, there are new parks, new restaurants, new murals and the beloved old boulevard tunnel has been completely transformed. but all the old places are there, all the old feelings, as if we never really left. I'm teaching modern for my old dance company moving in the spirit again, and really, it's like I've just come back from a very long trip. not a beat has been skipped. and then there are the new things-- an opportunity to shoot for the radical non-profit street art organization living walls sort of fell into my lap and I had a bit of work exhibited for weloveatl, a mobile photography truck. it was all very whirlwind and I will always be grateful for the unfolding of it.

over the summer, ezra fell in love with cactus plants and ava fell in love with the german language. ezra declared his room would be decorated to look like the state of new mexico and ava covered her bedroom walls with thrift store landscape paintings and old tree branches. I could never have predicted these things, which is what I love most about parenthood. ava went on her first solo bike ride and ezra went to his first real rock concert. I watched his eyes double in size the minute listener took the stage and I saw him exchange a look with his cousin-- the sort of look you give someone when something big is about to happen and you know it and they know it and you just want some sort of confirmation of said momentous event. afterwards, we let him pick out a t-shirt and he chose the black one with the yellow skull and jagged yellow lightning bolts because, of course. then we took them to waffle house because that's what you do after a show, we told them. you sit and eat waffles at midnight while your ears ring and you talk about the show.

other things that happened over the summer: humidity. humidity happened, it's still happening and truly, it is as oppressive as I remember but you know what? I don't hate it. actually, I find great comfort in it. also, I stopped watching the news. I'm not burying my head in the sand but I can't watch anymore. there's a good chance we've broken ourselves from the habit of cable television altogether, mostly because we're too lazy (and too broke) to have it hooked back up but also because we found we liked the quiet. surely we'll be singing a different tune a few months from now but until then, we are those people I have always loved to hate, the ones who say they don't need television. I'll tell you, I intend to ride this tv-free pony as long as I can.

lastly, we failed to purchase a bed this summer. in a moment of blind optimism, we ditched our old one (it really was pitiful) when we left portland in hopes it would force the mattress gods to smile down on us. 78 days later and we are still sleeping on an air mattress, which may have two or three holes in it, we're not exactly sure. what this means, friends, is that it must be re-inflated three or four times during the night. someday we will laugh about this, I am sure of it, but that someday is not now. until we have saved enough money for a new bed, the best we can do is cuddle up with netflix, a few bowls of fruity pebbles and listen to the hiss of the mattress, the sound of air slowly escaping and acknowledge that these are the good times. really and truly, they are. 

until then

what I can tell you is that we've been on the road. for two weeks, we've been on the road. and in the time leading up to our departure (from that late great city they call portland), a hundred million things happened. and then the road happened and now atlanta is about to happen and as I sit in this small, dark motel room in little rock, arkansas, I am realizing I need to say some things. maybe all of the things, before it's too late, before it all gets away from me. but the dust needs to settle and then there will be time. the words will tumble, I trust that.

summer color//colours are for lovers

back with my girl xanthe for another round of color//colour lovers, a project we started to battle winter whilst living in relentlessly grey, rainy cities.



and now it's summer (well, almost) and really, it's color season. this is when all the best colors come out to play, this is when they run rampant.



state fairs, fruit stands, beach umbrellas, farmers markets, wild flowers, road trips. this is color//colour hunting season, folks.



we would love for you to play along, if you are so inclined. we'll be sharing images on instagram, on the blogs and over at our shared color//colour happy place. join us however/wherever you like, jump in and out whenever you like. on the instagrams and the twitters, use the hashtag #colorcolourlovers and the color of the week hashtag because sharing is caring, friends. I am not a fan of the hashtag (I am maybe a little notorious for it) but this is serious business. we need to see the colors. all of the colors.

seven weeks of color//colour, here we go:

RED: week one//monday, june 9th
YELLOW: week two//monday, june 16th
PINK: week three//monday, june 23rd
GREEN: week four//monday, june 30th
PURPLE: week five//monday, july 7th
ORANGE: week six//monday, july 14h
BLUE: week seven//monday, 21st

red is up! off to find it. bye.

hello june

hello, month of monumental change. hello, edge where we are perched. hello, double-digit birthdays and eighth grade graduations and goodbye dinners (and breakfasts and lunches). hello, bittersweet feels. hello, open highways and rolled-down windows and dusty feet up on the dash and extra large cherry slushies. hello, days filled with the seeing of things. hello, late evening light and the return of the sun. hello, happy strawberry times. hello, land where the lightning bugs come out in june and flicker at dusk. hello, home.

sundays (36/52-39/52)

35/52

36/52

37/52

38/52

38/52

sunday, september the 1st: last barbecue of the summer.

sunday, september the 8th: comic book-making, b-ball handling.

sunday, september the 15th: details (port townsend, washington).

sunday, september the 22nd: the beginning of the rain.

sunday, september 29th: always an astronomy book in her lap, always.

(sundays sundays sundays)