Pinterest and other social media sites make it look so easy. Do a Pinterest search for “family photo”, and you’ll find dozens of beautiful images of families in perfect poses amid amber waves of wheat with golden sunlight sparkling in their hair. But Pinterest is a liar. Photographers and others put their best foot forward on social media, so those pins are “best of” images. The truth is most families find photo sessions trying because kids are wiggly, some adults are there under duress and most people don’t like having their picture taken. 

     Most sessions are scheduled by moms because they recognize the future value of images taken at various stages of life. Moms deserve credit for making those photos happen despite protests from their family members.  More than once I’ve taken family photos at a wedding or other event, and months later a grandparent or other relative in those images died. The value of those images cannot be understated, so all that work to herd your kids or force Aunt Bessie to get in the picture is worth it. And don’t worry if things don’t happen the way you want it to because here’s some truth.

     If your young child has ever had a cry-in-the-floor, red-faced, need-a-nap meltdown at a photo shoot, your family is normal.

     If your uncle Earl has ever declared that he hates to have his picture taken and refused to smile throughout the entire family session your family is normal.  

     If your child has fallen and bruised his forehead two days before a photo shoot, your family is normal.

     If your newborn has pooped, peed or thrown up on the props and photographer during a photo shoot, your family is normal.

     If you’ve ever had to bribe your children, spouse or adult relatives to get them to cooperate for ten minutes at a photo shoot, your family is normal.

     If you’ve ever had to threaten your children, spouse or adult relatives to get them to cooperate for ten minutes at a photo shoot, your family is normal.

     If your teenager has been surly throughout a photo shoot because he/she is just “too old for this kind of thing”, your family is normal.

     If you have ever wrapped up a family photo shoot and felt as if you needed a Tylenol and a large glass of merlot, your family is normal.

     Lower your expectations. Don’t worry if things aren’t perfect. People aren’t perfect. They have fuzzy hair, cowlicks, acne breakouts and toddler fits. Family is messy. They argue and grumble at each other and can be a hot mess. But they are your hot mess, and years from now, when some of the people in those pictures are long gone, you’re going to treasure those pictures, regardless of how many people are smiling, how many cowlicks there are and how imperfect they’re standing. In fact, you’re probably going to laugh for years at that picture in which your cousin is hitting his sister over the head. Take the picture, and don’t worry about the photographer. Inside we’re smiling, because when you say things like, “I’m sure you’ve never had to deal with this before” we’re thinking, “Yes, yes, I do, all of the time.” In fact, we kind of expect it.

I love the pace.

The kitsch.

The old.

And the new.

The streets above.

And the tracks below.

I soak up her history.

Including the parts that make me cry.

And I love how she shines.

Picking fruit always reminds me of gathering, canning and freezing produce with mama when I was growing up.  It seemed like such a chore back then. All of that washing, blanching and slicing.  The heat of the kitchen when those jars were boiling on the stove and the endless bean snapping was miserable to a kid who would rather be roaming the countryside on a bicycle or playing in the shade.  The year mama made enough homemade kraut to feed all of Massac County was almost my breaking point.  My actual breaking point was passing out from the heat in the midst of some blackberry bushes and getting eaten up by chiggers while sitting in the grass waiting to feel well enough to walk back to the house.  I stomped back into the house declaring that I would NEVER EVER pick blackberries again.  

I'm glad for those experiences, now, and for the knowlege that I can make jellies and relishes and store garden tomatoes for chili and soups.  Picking berries today is a way of remembering where I come from and reconnecting with those memories, and that's what I was thinking about yesterday morning while picking blackberries at Quint's in Massac County.  The smell of the produce in my hands, the sweat on my neck and the sounds of nature brought back lots of childhood summer memories.  

And Mr. Quint?  He was one of my elementary school teachers.  Reconnecting is good for the soul.

Thanks to the Quints for being so gracious and letting me take photos. 

I can stand inside of an abandoned school and hear the sounds of chalk on a board and the laughter of children.  If I close my eyes I can smell the chalk.  Standing inside of an old building in Hopkinsville that used to be a brothel, brought to mind imaginary tales of dingy bedrooms and the women who kept the town’s secrets.

Another place with stories to tell is the cemetery.  While driving around the countryside to find photo opportunities, I often stop in cemeteries.  You can tell a lot about people by the way they treat their dead.  In fact, I almost always visit an old cemetery when traveling overseas or in the southern states.  The dates on the head stones leave me wondering about children who died young, women widowed at an early age and old soldiers.  But it’s not just the old graves that tell stories.  Sometimes, the fresher graves have stories to tell, too, especially at the veterans’ cemeteries.  Stories that stop you in your tracks when you stumble upon them shortly after Christmas.

Like the 31 year old soldier whose marker was covered in lipstick.  Lip prints that accumulated over time.

Or the soldier whose stone held a cupcake and a card addressed to “Daddy” in the large printed scrawl of a young child.

The cupcake was in good shape, the container tinged with the frost of a chilly day.

How long before I stopped there had the child been there?  Is Christmas without “Daddy” as painful as I think it is?  And how many years will pass before this soldier’s story will sadly seem as common as those who have served decades before him?

Some didn't seem to care about the big lens sitting on the other side of the window, while others, especially the cardinals, were incredibly skittish.  All of them displayed a bit of personality, even the little guy that stared at me with a gaze that seemed to say, "Let me in where it's warm".
 

When we were in Vegas a couple of weeks ago, I twice left my husband ogling over the cars at the Barrett Jackson Auction and made my way to the older part of town to wander around and take pictures.  Vegas is one big mirage.  Just a lot of smoke and mirrors creating this fantasy playground for adults.  And if you look closely, there are people everywhere who succumbed to the fantasy and got lost in gambling or alcohol. 

I guess you could say I went looking for the show behind the show.  Without any judgment, I just started tipping locals who were either begging for money or trying to earn tips in weird ways and documented the people I ran into that day.  Mercy, I could spend weeks in the older part of Vegas just taking pictures of old motels and the people around them. 

Here are some folks I met along the way, and let me warn you right now, there is an elderly gentleman in a slingshot of a mankini in the mix.  It leaves little to the imagination.  Very.  Little.  The whole stroll around town and a public bus ride from one end of The Strip to the other was more fun than a barrel of monkeys.  Only one person declined to have her picture taken, and that was a sweet lady beside me on the bus who had worked a really difficult early shift at one of the casinos and was on her way home.  She shared a Steve Harvey video on her phone with me, and we laughed for blocks.

The award for best heart went to Ejigu, my cab driver, who is originally from Ethiopia and lives in Vegas with his brother. 

He thought I was a little crazy when I asked him to drive me to a closed, graffiti covered hotel in a really bad part of town and wait about five or so minutes while I hopped out and photographed it.  “We don’t drop people off there,” he said, not understanding how a photographer’s mind sometimes works.  He obliged though when he realized I wasn’t staying, and he kindly watched out for me so I could get my pictures and then took me on to Fremont Street.  He says summer in Vegas is hotter than Ethiopia.

Here are some of the rest of the bunch.  By the way, the mostly naked guy?  He was obviously well educated and very well spoken.   We spoke about Europe, specifically France and Paris.  He claims to spend some time there each year, and I kind of believe him.  If that’s true, there’s more money to be made standing around in a pink and yellow slingshot than I realized, but after all, it IS Vegas.  

Sometimes I just like to play. Although, I tend to get strange looks when I ask my family, “Hey, come in the kitchen and set this marshmallow on fire when I tell you to!”

Standing in the middle of the quiet street with sweat from the 97 degree day trickling down my back, I couldn’t help but wonder about Charles and Eula Mae, the feet that passed over the threshold of Ralph’s Laundry and the gossip that swirled on the bench out front between swigs from bottles of Coca-Cola on sweltering summer days.

When you grow up in a small town, you often complain that nothing changes, but the truth is there is comfort in the sameness of your surroundings.  The buildings, the people, your schools.  All of those things that are a part of the structure of your childhood days.  To the residents of a town that lost so much in a recent tornado, it must be sad to watch one of their community icons come down, as evidenced by the crowd and the poem recently written on one leg of the tower.

Stepping carefully around the old theater, I breathed in the smell of decay.  The dusty smell of a building that is dying a slow painful death at the hands of nature and neglect.  A building that, like a very old person, slowly marches to the end, inching closer with each turn of the Earth. 

Is it trespassing if no one cares you're there?  Is it wrong to wander through a door created by crumbling bricks and a wayward tree?  The curious part of me can't help but jump through the hole in the wall, a bit like Alice stepping through the looking glass, expecting a surprise on the other side.  And, oh, the surprises.  Urban decay does not disappoint.  Remnants of colorful facades, bright graffiti and a raggedy screen hanging above the stage.  And behind the screen rows of old chairs.   My heart leapt.  My eyes flickered over the possibilities, scanning for natural light and composing shots.  Snap.  Snap.  Snap.  There may have been a squeal. 

My brain rolled through the past decades, imagining the history of those seats.  Knowing that the theater originated in 1910, the possibilities seemed endless.  People discovering the wonder of the first movies.  Young men sliding their arm around a date.  Teenagers necking on the back row.  Does anyone say "necking" anymore?  Kids riding the range with Roy and Dale.  Adults following the happenings on far away shores during World Wars in MovieTone shorts, and hippies riding high with Easy Rider.   Imaginary images clicking through my head like pages flipping in a book. 

Who sat there?  What happened to those people?  What stories do those seats hold?  Truth, as they say, is always stranger than fiction, so the tales they could tell are likely more incredible than I can imagine.  But, oh, what fun to imagine.  And how sad that those memories will fade as those seats rot.         

When we visited New York a few years ago, I was so moved by some of the displays inside St. Paul's Chapel at the site, a refuge for recovery workers after the attacks.  The items were so personal.  The sample of photos of the missing brought back those gut wrenching images on TV each night of people trying vainly to find loved ones, and while it makes me look closer, I know others turn away because it hurts to look.

The memorial panels on the side of NYFD Ten House were beautiful.  I wanted to capture the texture of them because I wanted to remember the cool roughness of them and the visual cue to "feel" the sorrow and recovery they represented. 

I understand why the 9/11 museum is controversial.  For those close by, it's too much.  For those of us at a distance, it's not enough to truly know the devastation dealt to thousands of Americans.  We can watch specials on TV.  We can read pictures.  We can look at pictures, but it's never really enough.   

Earlier this year, I kept telling myself to get by there and get a few pictures before they demolished it.  I finally stopped one April morning at sunrise to snap off a few shots on my way to work.  It was very quiet and breezy out in the middle of that empty bridge on a crisp Saturday morning.  What a view!  I didn’t have but a few minutes, so I didn’t stay long.  Today, these shots seem as serene to me as it felt standing out there that morning, but that feels very odd given that a large chuck of the bridge is now sitting in a twisted pile of rubble on the ground.

There are so many blooms you cannot capture them in one wide image.   You really have to see the farm for yourself to fully appreciate it.  I’ve been lucky enough to be invited there on several occasions to take pictures, and I just love it.  I love daffodils as much as I love sunflowers, and I could spend hours and hours among those blooms, taking in their beauty and celebrating the departure of winter.  These images are just a fraction of the ones I shot this past weekend.  Imagine that.

I had a raging itch to shoot this past Saturday morning, and I was in the mood for some small town atmosphere and character.  I proposed a little road trip to Golconda, Illinois, which was met with a groan, because he saw HOURS of photo taking ahead, but he relented.  I think he was afraid I’d get the car stuck in some backwoods mud, and that‘s a real possibility this time of year in Pope County.  We’ve had a lot of rain lately.  I gave him my usual, “You never know what kind of adventure we’ll find” speech, and off we went.

We swung by Dixon Springs Park because I had a hunch the waterfall there was running pretty good, and much to my delight it was.  A waterfall makes a nature loving photography buff’s heart sing.  Sing loudly, I tell ya’.

Afterward, we headed to Golconda and arrived in town to find an antique tractor show and parade.  As in they lined up their polished, shiny old tractors and paraded them around the town square.  Young and old alike were there, celebrating a part of their heritage and the simplicity of rural living. 

It was just delightful.  Hubby loves old tractors, so he had a fine time examining them, and I got to roam around the streets of Golconda, searching for anything interesting to shoot. 

Strangers nodded and waved as I passed them, and no one batted an eye at my mud boots and ratty yard sale sweater, my usual attire on a back roads shoot.  What a wonderful little slice of Americana, in the backyard of where I grew up.  No matter where you live, the roots of your youth run deep, I think.

I think of ice as nature’s jewelry.  It’s as if the landscape is dripping in diamonds, making everything nice and sparkly in the right light.

I especially like the way it transforms outdoor sculpture, turning a piece of art into a completely different piece.

Fascinating, yes.  But come on, spring!

It was fun to spend the day shooting with fellow photogs, but it was equally as fun just enjoying the blessing of nature’s beauty.  I have definitely become my mother because driving around the countryside all day looking at trees, animals and old houses and barns has become a favorite pastime.  And the trip to Reelfoot was a great reminder of the diversity of the landscape in this part of the country.  The fried fish I had at Boyette’s at lunch was pretty good, too. 

We saw a blue heron devour a snake (no photo for me, I was on the wrong side of the car), a mass of green headed mallards, a batch of bashful coots and the best moment of the day, hundreds, maybe thousands of snow geese taking flight.  Even if I hadn’t gotten a picture of that, it was something special to see. 

Here are some shots from the day.  Oh, and be forewarned.  Apparently, I have a fascination with the bottoms of cypress trees.  Get out and see the world.  It’s pretty cool, even in the winter.

A photographer buddy and I were talking this week about how interesting we find it when we create an image we love and no one else likes it or how someone falls in love with something we deem a throwaway shot.  I guess that’s what makes art interesting.  We all like different things, and we all have different perspectives developed through the filters of our life experiences.  I’m always flattered when someone falls in love with one of my pictures.  However, because I’m so critical of my own work, it’s rare that I fall in love with one of my own shots.  There are usually just a few each year that I truly love, and often it has as much to do with the experience I had while shooting it as it does the final product.  I get to meet a lot of great people through photography.

Sometimes, a favorite comes from a wedding shoot or family shoot because of the special moment captured.  To me it’s a great honor for a couple or family to ask me to preserve a special time for them.  I feel privileged to be a small part of the joy of marriage, maternity and births.  That’s the good stuff in life!

Below are my favorites of 2013.  I hope 2014 also yields a year of bugs, blooms and interesting faces and places.

Tom.  Oh, Tom.  You have the most interesting face I have come across in a long time. 

Besides being just a truly nice guy, you have so graciously answered all of my nosey questions about your tattoos and piercings and a business that this middle aged mama knows nothing about but is fascinated by.  I’m sure you chuckle every time I leave your shop, and you’ve taught me so much about the tragedy of judging a book by its cover.

While I don’t like getting up early, I have grown to love the rhythm of my town as it comes alive with the sunrise in the mornings.  I have decided it’s a blessing to have to be at work at 7am because it forces me to see the beauty of that time of day and the people who move in darkness and the orange glow of sunrise.

This year, I rediscovered the beauty of the area in which I grew up.  Southern Illinois’ natural beauty is incredible when you take the time to travel its back roads, rocks and waterfalls.  I can’t wait to explore the waterfalls during the spring rains this year.  This shot came from an old tower in the middle of nowhere.   I love the layers of color.

This image of giddy girls headed out to prom just makes me smile every time I look at it.  They were so much fun to photograph.  High school has such a way of making us feel inadequate that I love that they could see that night how beautiful they are.

This one makes me feel all warm inside.  It’s the mother of the groom reading for the first time a card her son gave to her shortly before the wedding.  So touching.  It’s exactly the kind of moment I look for when shooting weddings.

Since my soul yearns to soak up the world, I’m always inspired and in awe of the places I visit.  I was very fortunate to see several parts of Italy last year and two of my favorite pictures from that trip came from wonderful watery Venice.  I think the first one is going to end up on my bedroom wall in a big print.

And then there's this one just because it was so cool.  I will never forget that day as long as I live.

One of my favorite pastimes is shooting macro nature shots, and I plan to do more of that this year.  Neighbors, beware.   You’ll see me laying in the yard with my camera to the ground and my butt in the air chasing bugs and dew drops.  They came together in this one.

And then there were the spiderwebs.

May your year be filled with the things that bring you joy.

They say it takes a village to raise a child, and I think that’s true.  If you’re lucky, you get a big wonderful noisy village like me.  All my life, I have been surrounded by cousins, aunts, uncles and friends who have filled my life with joy, guidance and love.  As an older, less naïve adult, I am now fully aware of how rare that can be, and I cling to that tighter as the years go by and that village gets smaller with the loss of my father’s brothers and sisters.  I can only imagine how hard it is for him and my mother to see death regularly take away their closest loved ones.  Their circle grows smaller and smaller every year. 

In the middle of my village was my Aunt Betty.  She’s a player in some of my earliest memories.  When I was very young we lived “up north” as we say in these parts.  Daddy worked at the Joliet Arsenal, and we lived in an apartment in Manteno, just blocks away from Aunt Betty and Uncle Paul (dad's brother).  I was four years old, and all but one of their six children was older than me.  I was always fascinated by the comings and goings of all those teenagers.  Their bustling noisy house was exciting to a preschooler who constantly wanted to tag along.  There were squeals and motorcycles and even an exploding crockpot.  I created my own excitement the day I choked on a piece of peppermint candy, and Aunt Betty scooped me up and pounded that peppermint out of my mouth and across the room.  I can credit her with saving my life at the tender age of four. 

Even though we moved back to Metropolis when I was five, we still saw them in the summer and stayed especially close after she and Uncle Paul moved here after retirement.  She was always good for a laugh, and I love to laugh.  We shared many a smile, and she made me smile many times.

Last January, she came on the family cruise we took to Mexico.  It delighted me to no end that she needed a passport at the age of 79.  And while we initially thought we would have to watch over her, it was obvious on the first night that she and her sister were going to have a large time and had no use for “supervision”.  Companionship yes, supervision no.  It was so much fun watching them have a good time that week.  In fact, I can credit their great toilet seat incident with making me laugh so hard that my bladder betrayed me right there in the middle of the Carnival Paradise.  It was a betrayal of Benedict Arnold proportions.

Aunt Betty (right)

I laughed about that this morning shortly after I found out Aunt Betty had earned her ultimate healing.  Laughed and cried.  As Truvy says in Steel Magnolias, “laughter through tears is one of my favorite emotions”.  I was a bit of a mess by the time I arrived at my first appointment this morning.   I will hold that memory and others dear to my heart, but more than anything I will remember her for her love.  She was much loved, and she loved well.  She opened her door to many children over the years.  As a kid, every time I asked to go somewhere with her, she said yes.  She was the first person to welcome my husband into the family with a big hug, and she always made him feel like blood family.  She had many grandchildren and great-grandchildren who are mourning her loss today.  And her wit will be missed by all.  She’s probably already pulled a good one on St. Peter.  And I’m sure she’s rejoicing at her reunion with Uncle Paul and her son, Jay.  Look out Heaven, you have no idea what just hit you.  And it’s coming at you with a big hug.     

I snapped off a few pictures in the yard before I realized there was no lock on the church door.  Unable to help myself, I pulled on the door knob, and sure enough, it was open.  On the heels of Halloween, the Nervous Nelly in me, halfway expected to see the ghosts of past worshippers sitting in the pews.  And in a way, I did.  The empty building is well preserved, and while I’m guessing there maybe is a homecoming event there once a year or a special event once in a while, it has obviously not been used in many years.  Someone maintains it though.  A layer of dust covered the pews that smelled of old wood, and I left footprints on the dusty floor as I slipped to the front of the single room.  The lectern was there, along with the old upright piano, the faded picture of Jesus behind the pulpit and the hand lettered list of local men who served in World War II.

It was silent enough to hear the memories in my head of old hymns like “I’ve Got a Mansion” and “Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”.   And the voice of my long dead great grandpa, who did a little preaching from time to time back when men wore dress shirts, suspenders and hats.  I wondered about the people who had worshipped at Pleasant Ridge Church, about the fate of the men on the honor board and what happened to the homes that had probably surrounded that church when it was built. 

My mental wandering was interrupted by a truck that pulled up to the church.  It was a local funeral home director who had stopped by to place a temporary marker on a grave.  Before I left, we spoke of the death of old churches and their congregations.  I snapped one more photo and drove away, grateful for unlocked doors and the footprints of country folk.

I am fascinated by dragonflies.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps, it’s the challenge they present.  They’re small, the move fast and they don’t sit still very long.  It’s tough to choose your composition, focus and shutter speed in the 1.2 seconds you usually get between the time they land on something and then take off again.  It’s so frustrating, but they’re just beautiful, and up close, their little faces seem to have expressions.  I love that they come in so many colors and varieties.

In the past month, I have spent hours chasing them.  Quietly sitting in the brush at the edge of the neighbor’s pond, waiting for them to land somewhere close to me and praying a snake didn’t slither through the foliage and over my feet.  I should have been praying that the chiggers stayed away from the waistband of my underwear. 

Every night after dinner, I would hop on the golf cart and zip over to the pond.  Watching.  Waiting.  Stalking the little wisps of color buzzing back and forth near the bank.  They rarely landed, and when they did, they would be gone in a split second.  Or they landed so far away, they would be just out of reach.

I studied them.  I read about them.  I tried every technique I could think of to get them to show up and sit still for me.  And night after night I came home empty handed.  Until one night about a week and a half ago.

I drove over to the pond and saw one dragonfly.  And because I’m stubborn if nothing else, I commenced to stalking.  The first thirty minutes yielded nothing.  It was one of those blue and brown “skimmers” that Google tells me rarely lands.  Google was right.  But then, as I leaned farther out into the brush along the edge of the water (please, God, don’t let there be a snake), I stirred up two dragonflies that had been hidden somewhere in the weeds.  They buzzed a little and then one landed right in front of me, and it stayed there.  Hallelujah!  I shot away.   And then the other landed nearby.  It stayed, too.  It was if they talked amongst themselves, and said, “Hey, let’s just give her what she wants and maybe she’ll go away.”   Or perhaps they were just tired.  Whatever the reason, those two and the skimmer played on the weeds around me, sitting still for long periods of time while I shot for an hour and a half.  I could not have been more entertained if I had been watching Forrest Gump.  The two dozen chigger bites I got from doing that?  Not so entertaining.

 Saturday, my husband I made a spur of the moment trip to Aurora, KY to get a cheeseburger at Belew’s Dairy Bar.  And maybe some ice cream.  On our way back we drove through Land Between the Lakes and when I spotted a sign that said the Nature Station was having a hummingbird festival I made him pull over.  He started groaning because he knew he was about to wander around while I took a couple of thousand pictures of birds, but like the good husband he is, he pulled into the Nature Station anyway.

He ended up having a good time, except for the interlude that involved a big black snake slithering into the crowd where he and others were watching bird banding.  The Underwood’s don’t do snakes.  Please don’t leave comments telling me snakes are nothing to worry about, that they’re great rodent eaters…yadda, yadda, yadda.  I’ve tried to overcome my fear of them and nothing has worked so far.  I’m embracing my fear and rolling with it.  Someone picked up the snake and released it a few feet away.  Right into the weeds next to the photography blind where I was patiently waiting my turn.  I moved on and so did my husband. 

The birds were just fascinating.  Dozens of them zipped and swooped around us.  It was a nature photographer’s dream, and the presentation on various birds was very entertaining.  There is nothing cuter than a little screech owl.  If you’re a hummingbird fan, I highly recommend a visit to the festival next year, especially if you like to take nature pictures.

The other day, I returned to the same batch of lilies that I shot a couple of weeks prior.  The blooms were fading, and their petals curled in a wonderful way that I found even more pleasing than when they were fresh and young.  The late afternoon sun made them a really saturated orange, and the water drops from a sudden summer shower gave them an added element that just wasn’t there the first time I shot them.  It was well worth the bottom soaking I got from sitting on the ground.

I’ve had little time to do that lately because I’ve spent so much time editing pictures for clients, so yesterday evening, I made a point to do a little shooting.  I didn’t have much time, so I grabbed the first subject I could find, my neighbor’s day lilies.  Oh, how I love those orange flowers.  They will grow anyway there is ample sun, tipping their faces to the sky and bringing beauty to roadside ditches and random fields.  Brother E.’s lilies were gorgeous yesterday evening, and I took great pleasure in sitting among them, shooting away.  And I came away without any chigger bites.  It was a win-win.

We requested tickets for his Wednesday General Audience through Santa Susanna Church, a beautiful church that serves as the official American Catholic Church in Rome.  The tickets are free, but in high demand right now because of the popularity of Pope Francis.  There was no guarantee we would get them even though the odds were in our favor.

We received an email while we were in Florence alerting us that we had indeed gotten tickets and that we could pick them up at Santa Susanna between 5 and 6:30pm the night before the Audience.  And by the way, the email also warned us not to knock on the door and disturb the nuns if we arrived after 6:30pm.  We made sure to get there before 6:30pm.

The morning of the audience, we arrived at St. Peter’s Square at 7:30am, three hours prior to the start of the event as recommended by the folks at Santa Susanna.  There were already several thousand people gathered, waiting for the security detail to open the gates.  Not sure where to enter because of the crowd, we followed an American tour group that had an English speaking guide who seemed to know where she was going.  We ended up very close to one of the entrances.  Even a blind squirrel finds an acorn I suppose. 

The event involves festival seating, and people are anxious to snag good seats.  I had been advised by a coworker who had been to the Audience just a month before to seek out a seat near a rail.  So we did.  When we all started filing through security, there was a rush by many to get to the front seats.  Nicole and I headed toward the center aisle instead and grabbed spots along the rail.  And began to wait.  We are not catholic, but we wanted to attend because it seemed like a once in a lifetime opportunity to witness an exciting spiritual event.  Besides, it’s the Pope! 

People from all over the world were there.   They came with signs and banners and enthusiasm.

Most of the people around us were from South America, so you can imagine how excited they were.  If you look closely in this picture, you can see that the gentleman on the left has a Chilean flag velcroed onto his forehead.  Yes, VELCROED. 

This little girl brought a picture that she made for the Pope, hoping to give it to him.  I’ll pause while you wipe away a tear.

The pomp and circumstance began before the Pope arrived, with lots of security and music. 

They also spent a fair amount of time announcing all of the visiting parishes who are there from around the world.  Each group cheered as its name was read. 

Close to the starting time, as they were still reading names, we heard a loud roar from the rear of the crowd, and when we looked at the jumbo video screens we could see that Pope Francis had arrived and had started circling the masses in the Pope Mobile.   Because of the crowd, it was hard to tell where he was headed, but about ten minutes into his jaunt we heard the cheers grow louder in waves that came closer to us.  We figured he was close, and he was.  He went zipping down an aisle nearby, and we caught a good glimpse of him from the side.

I started watching the Swiss Guard and the rest of his security detail in our vicinity, and when they started dashing around us I figured Pope Francis was coming our way again.  He did.  This time, right up the center aisle, immediately in front of us, waving and smiling at the crowd.  We were waving and shouting like it was the kickoff of the Super Bowl.   The cheers were so loud; you couldn’t hear anything but the roar.  He was close, so close that had he leaned down and had we reached up even farther than we were already waving, we could have touched his hand.  I started snapping pictures and didn’t stop until he was right in front of me.  I forced myself to look away from the lens because I didn’t want to be so caught up in taking pictures that I failed to experience that incredible moment.

By the way, that's my big hand in the picture, waving like a maniac.  When he was gone, Nicole and I looked at each other, and I said, “Can you believe that?!”   We watched him on the video screens for several more minutes and then saw the Swiss Guard in front of us start running into place again.   I shouted to Nicole, “I think he’s coming by again!”  And sure enough, he did.  A second pass, right in front of us, waving and looking right at us again.  We looked him right in the face for a second time, and waved and cheered.  He has such a friendly smile.

He rode up the center aisle to the staging area in front of St. Peter’s Basilica and got into place for the start of the service. 

We took our seats like everyone else, and for the next hour listened to words spoken in a mixture of languages, little of which we understood, but it really didn’t matter.  It was a wonderful experience being in the midst of thousands of joyful people, all rejoicing and worshipping at the same time.  I felt good from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.  Downright giddy even.  What an uplifting thing to be in the midst of so many happy people.  How often does that happen in this crazy world these days?  Not much.

After it ended, we headed to the Vatican Museum with growling stomachs, full bladders and sleepy eyes from our early alarm, but we were smiling from ear to ear.  We had taken this trip, hoping for once in a lifetime experiences and that’s exactly what we got that day.  It still makes me smile to think about it.

The oldest bridge in Florence, it has always been a spot where vendors hawked their goods.  And somewhere in the middle of that pedestrian traffic, right by that statue, is a spot where visitors try their hand at romance.  With locks.  They put two locks together, often with a message scribbled on the locks, and toss the key off the bridge and into the water below.  Some are looking to seal a romance already found.  Others are looking for a lover.

It's something that is practiced in a handful of spots around the world, including Paris' Pont de Arts Bridge.  In fact, it's become a bit of an environmental issue in some of those places.  And as much as I understand the frustration of city leaders who have to deal with the issue, I can't help but find it completely charming. 

But not all of Florence's art is in galleries.  A great deal of it is in the cathedrals and religious buildings scattered throughout the city.  In fact, it permeates all aspects of the city.  It's everywhere you turn. 

The architecture of the buildings and the fountains that dot the town like sputtering gems are works of art with details and sculpture that stare at you, dare you to touch them and sometimes, just make you smile.

It's so much a part of Florence that it even lies under your feet in the form of beautiful creations that can be swept away with the rain.

The art, I think, makes Florence a unique and beautiful charmer that is a joy to succumb to.    

The exclamation point to its design is Brunelleschi's marvelous dome which was the inspiration for the dome at St. Peter's Basilica in Rome.

You can climb the taxing 463 steps to the top of the Dome, which we did for the best views in Florence.  It was definitely worth all of that huffing and puffing to the top (and back down).  My glutes were most unhappy, but my heart and soul were thrilled.

Back down on the ground, immediately in front of the Duomo, is the Baptistery. 

It's most stunning feature is Ghiberti's beautiful doors, dubbed by Michelangelo as the Gates of Paradise.  And rightly so.  The ones currently on the Baptistery are actually replicas, but they are gorgeous, nonetheless.

The original doors were taken down in 1990 and underwent an extensive restoration process.  They went back on display to the public last year, and we were lucky enough to have seen them in the nearby Duomo Museum, where they loom gloriously in a room by themselves.  Wow.  Simply, wow.

Throughout the three days were were there, we passed the Duomo many times.  This is the area where an American tourist was stabbed during an attempted mugging the day we left there, but we never felt unsafe there.  In fact, it was a very neat place to stand, each and every time we walked by the Duomo.  Well done, Ghiberti and Brunelleschi.  Well done.  

It also put a damper on the normally lively nightlife in the St. Mark's Square area.

By morning, however, the water had gone down, and while it wasn't sunny, it was fairly dry.  We spent the day visiting the main sites, including Doge's Palace and St. Mark's Basilica (incredible), and the islands around Venice.  The bottom of our pants were wet the whole time we stayed in Venice, but it was hard to be upset about it, given the incredible things we saw.

We arrived in a storm and some late spring rains that flooded St. Mark's Square our first night there, forcing some people (not us) to wade through water to get to their hotels.  By morning, the flooding was gone, but it was cloudy for most of the day.  By late afternoon, as we walked around the small island of Murano, marveling at their long tradition of glass blowing, the sun popped out, giving us a break from the clouds.  The pace at Murano is slow and traditional, with the people who live there seemingly living in a world all their own.  We took a little bit of the glass with us and left a small piece of our hearts there. 

St. Mark's Basilica, the gondola ride, Doge's Palace and the Bridge of Sighs charmed us with their quaint antiquity.

BOKEH

Definition:  A Japanese term for the subjective aesthetic quality of out-of-focus areas of a photographic image.

I love shooting the lights at Patti's Restaurant each Christmas season.  This year, I chose to focus on the glorious bokeh that can be created with the camera in the midst of all those lights.  My family deserves a gold medal for waiting patiently in the 25 degree weather while I played.

Of course, a little color doesn't hurt.

The cross that has since moved to the memorial site.

The site in May 2011.

Inside St. Paul's Chapel at the foot of Ground Zero.  The church survived the attacks without even a broken window.

More from St. Paul's.

The firefighters' memorial wall at the nearby fire station

The firefighters memorial

A sign from one of the trucks destroyed by 9/11.  It hangs in the fire station at Ground Zero.

I literally have several hundred pictures I took in London.  There is a photo opportunity on every corner, and one day, I'd love to go back and have plenty of time to spend on composition and exposure and all of those things that make a good picture.  However, we were on the move so much, there just wasn't time to think really hard about each photo.  There is so much history and activity in that great city that it would take months to see it all.  Here is a smattering of our stops there.

Tower Bridge

Doors at Westminster Abbey

One of a million Tube stops we made that week.  Mind the Gap!

One of the very humorous Beefeaters at the Tower of London. 

A hallway at the Tower of London.  Such a fascinating place.

Big Ben

Victoria Circle in Front of Buckingham Palace

The Gates to Buckingham Palace

 St. Paul's Cathedral

The Wall in Front of Abbey Road Studios.  And yes, we did sign our names.

It's hard to express how much joy I get from sitting on my butt in the middle of those flowers, looking for great images.  It also makes me feel very close to nature and in turn, close to God.  Yesterday was my first of what will likely be several trips to the sunflower fields in the next couple of weeks.  For some reason, I was especially taken with the lady bugs that were hanging out on those bright sunny blooms yesterday.