The three Wagstaff girls: Carolyn, Susan, and Martha. Dresses that Mom made. Sitting on the front steps of Grandma Burton's home in Star Valley, WY. The start of the tradition of THREE.
Megan, Nathan and Lauren in the treehouse that Grandpa Wagstaff build in West Des Moines, IA.
This one was done at Christmas time in our home in Houston, TX before the flood. I took the picture as I was looking down on them from the top of the staircase on the second floor.
Nathan, Lauren and Megan all lined up for me to try some "artsy" stuff one afternoon.I seem to spend all of my time lately taking pictures of birds. There are birds that come to my driveway; birds at the lake where I walk dogs; birds at the Wildlife Sanctuary; birds along the sides of the road; and tiny finches that roost in the "u" of our Publix grocery store sign. Before I decided to start looking for birds to photograph, I didn't really have a focus for my hobby. Four years ago, with both of my daughters' weddings coming up, I splurged and bought myself a really nice camera. But after the weddings, I didn't really know what to take pictures of.
When my children were growing up, I took them places and took pictures of them while we were there. I have countless photos of the three of them; on the floor looking up at me and the camera; the three of them standing in a row in front of the swing set in the backyard; all of them looking to the right, in a staggered line, in profile, in black and white; on Sunday, dressed in their new clothes (and slightly put out because I had insisted that they be dressed in these new clothes for the picture), standing in front of the Christmas tree; their smiling faces arranged in a vertical line outside of Megan and Lauren's middle school building; three in a row behind a small clump of Texas blue bonnets (which it is against the law to pick) that were growing along side of the road. In the last year, I have, in fact, started to assemble collections of these photographs and hung them on the walls of our family room.
There's the "real" art in our formal room. (This is the room where there once was a dining room table with chairs around it. It is now the resting place for a rather old, kind of beat up baby grand piano and a rather nicer, competition sized pool table and a display hutch that holds and protects a great number of my breakable things.) This "real" art is a collection of pieces, almost all of which, have been bought from friends or created by the artists in our family. Some are priceless pieces of my past. Others are recent gifts from inspired people who are uniquely talented at capturing the spirit and heart of the world around us. One is a huge, four-by-six-foot painting done by my great aunt of the park near her home. Another is a tiny, solid silver button--not even an inch high--in the shape of a rabbit and enameled in light blue. (It was "her favorite.") Hanging on the wall is an intricately woven textile basket, done in warm browns with glimmers of sun, earth, fall leaves, and winter greys that illustrates the safe-haven our home has always been. It is a wonderful room with a high ceiling and a glass wall that opens out onto the shimmering pool in the lanai. I can sit there as I play the piano and have the sensitivities and whimsies of these artisans sound through my memories--mixing with the piano notes and composing a lush experience that even I--the English major--have no spoken words to describe.
And then there is the "living" art that crowds the walls of our family room. I, in fact, am the only one in our family who calls this room the family room. For everyone else, this room where we watch TV, play video games, type away on our computers, hoover over a puzzle on the low, central table--this is their "living" room. We actually do spend most of our time here--eating, having Family Home Evening (such as ours have become), praying together, studying for college classes, assembling the various elements of the Stake Primary presentations that I give during Ward Conferences--and where the only couch in our home resides. It is the throne of the weary, the cocoon of the sick, the resting place for anyone seeking comfort and company. I have hung the pictures of Megan, Lauren, Nathan, Anton, Adam, Jonathan, Brent, his parents and my parents and myself very closely together--they look like puzzle pieces, carefully arranged so that the wall behind them barely has a chance to peek through. Some of these frames hold collections of the three of my children--standing, sitting, smiling, creating, hunting, finding and wondering, all together. They are captured in an instant that will never happen again. The wonder of these snapshots constantly, continually charms and captivates me. Three spirits; three curiosities, three pairs of wise eyes, three faces focused on ME--the person behind the camera. In these moments, I see them watch me. I see them respond to me. I see them love me.
I love this room. In this room my children are home with me again. We are making glue pictures. I am taking them out of school early so that we can go to the park and then to get an ice cream cone. We are in the car, I am lost (again), and they are calmly reading books and eating the treats they have packed in bags that I have sewn for them. They are dressed in Halloween costumes that I have made and posing beside the jack 'o lanterns they have carved. I am posing them in a row. I am with them.
In this room my own babies have come to roost. They are never far from my thoughts. In this room, they are always before my eyes. It is a selfish place, this room. It is a wonderful, laughing, smiling, glowing, accomplishing place. Now that my children are grown and busy with their own picture taking, I take pictures of the birds that surround me. In this room, I surround myself with those whom I love the best in all the world. In this room, I also find a place of peace and safety. In this room, I am home.
One of the pairs of Sand Hill Cranes that come to rest and eat at our house. They trust us enough that I am able to get right next to them as they eat or walk about. This is the first time that I have ever seen one of them actually "sleeping." She opened her eyes while I photographed her and her mate, but didn't move. It is magic to belong to a family of individuals who can already fly--and who will come and hang out with me while I prune trees or plant seedlings if they have nothing better to do.
