Funny, Funny Mother

In the spirit of the Christmas reading enclosed below, I have included a photo of the cardinal that I have been trying to take a picture of for the last month. Either my camera is too cold and so fogs up; my camera's batteries are too low to focus; I can hear him but not see him; he is in the sun and I am shooting from the shade; OR Nate or/and Brent call me to come and see him and he is gone before I can get outside----all of this has conspired against me thus far. Last week I was outside and one of the lone sandhill cranes flew over and decided to drop in for lunch. He kept calling to me as I went into the garage to get a scoop of seed to spread on the corner of the driveway, but was moving slowly enough that I had time to grab my camera and snap pictures as he strode up the side of the street. I was clicking away when I backed up to get a different perspective and LOW AND BEHOLD!!! the cardinal was there right beside me. I had an empty digital card, new batteries and was shooting from sun to sun and got some PERFECT shots of the red head. My triumph for the month! My left knee is still swelling and bothering me after physical therapy this week--so I will dwell, instead, on this clear, well-centered photograph of "my" cardinal.

The poem below is a piece that I remember my mom reading at a church Christmas party when I was still in grade school. I had tried googling/yahooing it several times--assuming that she had probably found it in a humorous collection somewhere. BUT I found her original, typed copy in among a box full of pictures. It is too good to keep to myself.

SEE MOTHER. FUNNY, FUNNY MOTHER.

See Mother. See Mother laugh. Mother is happy.

Mother is happy about Christmas.

Mother has many plans. Mother has many plans for Christmas.

Mother is organized. Mother smiles all the time.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother smile. Mother is happy.

The shopping is all done. See the children watch TV.

Watch children watch.

See the children change their minds.

See them ask Santa for different toys.

Look, Look, Mother is not smiling.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother sew.

Mother will make dresses.

Mother will make robes.

Mother will make shirts.

See Mother put the zipper in wrong.

See Mother sew the dress on the wrong side.

See Mother cut the skirt too short.

See Mother put the material away until January.

Look, Look. See Mother take a tranquilizer.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother buy raisins and nuts.

See Mother buy candied pineapple and powdered sugar.

See Mother buy flour and dates and pecans and brown sugar and bananas and spices and vanilla.

Look, Look, Mother is mixing everything together.

See the children press cut cookies.

See the flour on their elbows.

See the cookies burn. See the cake fall.

See the children pull taffy. See Mother pull her hair.

See Mother clean the kitchen with the garden hose.

Funny, Funny Mother.

See Mother. See Mother wrap presents.

See Mother look for the other end of the scotch tape roll.

See Mother bite her finger mails.

See Mother go.

See Mother go to the store 12 times in one hour.

Go, Mother, go.

See the faraway look in Mother’s eyes.

Mother has become disorganized.

Mother has become disoriented.

Funny, Funny Mother.

It is finally Christmas morning. See the happy family.

See Father smile.

Father loves the fruitcake.

Father loves the Christmas pudding.

Father loves all the new neckties.

Look, Look, See the happy children.

Santa was very good to the children.

The children will remember this Christmas.

See Mother. Mother is slumped in a chair.

Mother is crying uncontrollably.

Mother does not look well.

Mother has ugly dark circles under her bloodshot eyes.

Everyone helps Mother to bed.

See Mother sleep quietly under sedation.

See Mother smile.

Funny, Funny Mother.

Written and performed by Nancy Kathleen Burton Wagstaff

Probably in the late 1960s or early 1970s while we lived in Minnesota.

Birthday Creation from my Lauren

Purple, Purple Everywhere

I turned 51 this month and Lauren made this cut-work card for me. It was way too incredible to relegate to a page of my scrapbook--so I framed it. I will put it up with the other artwork that her dad, sister and brother (and she) have already fashioned. She also wove me a basket, accented in purple, and so I'll hang the two of them together.

I have gotten a lot of my hand-work finished since I have been laying on the couch waiting for my knee to begin to heal. There aren't any spectacular cuts or gashes to show off for all of the time I am restricted from doing the things that I love. I will have to be satisfied with the needlework I've done and the creations Lauren has sent.

How Important It Is to Be Ernest CEW Hendry Megan CH Rytting Re-write MD April 2010

How Important It Is to Be Ernest

CEW Hendry

Megan CH Rytting

Re-write MD April 2010

Once upon a time, there lived a very young, very handsome mouse named Ernest.

He had a mother, a father, a brother named Sam and a sister named Rachael-Lin.

Ernest was good at telling jokes. He was good at climbing trees and he had his own tree house.

No one in his family could run faster or sing louder than he could.

Everyone in his family had chores to do every day.

Ernest was in charge of watering the house plants and bringing in the mail. He was in charge of putting the plates and spoons on the table at supper time.

Ernest did a pretty good job of remembering to do his chores all by himself.

His brother and sister and mother and father also had chores that they did. Everyone helped to get the work done.

When Ernest turned 3½ years old, he decided that he didn’t like the jobs that he was supposed to do. He began to notice the things his family did. He watched his brother weed the garden and pick carrots for the family to eat. He saw how his sister patched the hole in his pants and sewed a new shirt for him to wear. He watched as his father painted a new shelf for the kitchen and washed the family car.

He saw the jobs that his family did . . . and did not do his own chores.

Ernest’s mother noticed that the plants in the kitchen began to die. She found letters from the mailbox dropped all over the hallway floor.

At dinner one night, every one sat down to eat—but there were no plates or spoons to eat with! Ernest’s mother asked him why he did not do his chores and he told her that only mouse-lings did dumb jobs like water the plants and bring in the mail. He told his family that he didn’t like doing his chores. He wanted to do big mouse jobs--jobs that were important!

They all talked about it and decided that on Monday, Ernest would trade chores with Sam; on Tuesday he would trade chores with Rachael-Lin; and on Wednesday he would trade jobs with his father.

After lunch on Monday, Ernest was in charge of weeding the garden. Sam showed him which plants were weeds and which plants were carrots. He gave Ernest a pail to put the weeds in. Then Sam went inside to water the house plants.

It was hot outside! Ernest pulled a weed. He pulled up another. He sat down on the ground and rested for a while. He reached over to pull on the next weed—but it wouldn’t budge! He reached for the next plant. It came up easily with a small “pop”! Ernest looked down at it—and then he looked at the weeds already in the pail.

It wasn’t a weed. It was a carrot!

Ernest tried to push it back down into the ground, but it wouldn’t go. He looked up all around him. It seemed like he was in a forest of weeds. He tried to pull up another weed—but it stuck fast in the ground.

Sam saw Ernest sitting in the garden and walked over to him. Ernest held up the carrot and gave it to Sam.

Then he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the clouds and feeling sad.

On Tuesday, Ernest was in charge of sewing buttons on the new shirt that Rachael-Lin had just made for him to wear. She showed him how to thread a needle. She got out the buttons for the new shirt. She told him how to sew on a button: the needle went in the front and out the back. Next, the needle went in the back and came out the front. She handed Ernest the needle and thread and then she went down to put the plates and spoons on the table for supper.

Ernest got all the buttons off the table. He picked up the needle with its long trail of red thread. He put the shirt on the floor and placed a button on the front of the shirt. Then he began to sew. He pushed the needle in the front, through the button hole and down through the cloth. He turned the shirt over to find the needle so that he could pull it out the back. He could not find the needle. He looked at the front of the shirt again. He couldn’t find the needle there, either. He picked up the shirt and shook it. The needle fell out and onto the floor. Now he had the needle, but he couldn’t find the button. He pulled on the needle, but the thread was in a big knot—it would not come out. Ernest picked up the shirt and saw the button rolled away.

Ernest went to look for the button. He held on to the needle as he walked across the floor. The shirt dragged after him, pulled by the big knot of red thread. Rachael-Lin came to check on Ernest and saw him looking for the button. He looked up as she came into the room. He held up the needle, the shirt swinging from the knot of red thread. He gave it to her and he walked outside.

Then, he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the leaves, and feeling sad.

The next day was Wednesday and Ernest was in charge of washing the car. His father showed him where the sponge and the soap were kept. He got out the special window cleaner for Ernest to use and gave him the bucket to hold the soapy water for washing the car. Then, his father went to get the mail.

Ernest went and got the hose and turned it. He began to put water into the bucket with the soap. The water came out so fast! Ernest ran back to turn the water off. By the time he got back, the bucket had over-flowed and there were suds everywhere!

Ernest got the sponge and got it soapy. He washed the bumpers. He washed the tires. He got a stool and climbed up on the hood of the car so that he could wash the top of the car. Ernest began to rub the sponge across the top of the front window, but he started to slip! He was falling! He grabbed for something to keep him from sliding off of the front of the car. He felt something . . . the windshield wiper came off in his paw! He rolled softly off the hood of the car and into the bucket of suds.

Ernest crawled out of the bucket. He looked at the windshield wiper he held in his paw. He looked at the ground, all covered with piles of creamy, foamy suds. Ernest looked up to see his dad standing by the car. He held up the windshield wiper and gave it to his father.

Then he went and climbed up into his tree house and lay on his back, watching the birds, and feeling sad.

Ernest spent a lot of time in his tree house that week. He watched the clouds changing shape. He saw a mother and a daddy bird bring food to the babies in their nest. He felt the wind as it blew some leaves off the branches. He noticed how, on other branches, there were new leaves starting to grow.

Ernest thought about the things that had happened that week.

It was important to keep the weeds out of the garden. But it was also important to take care of the plants inside the house.

It was important to have new clothes ready to wear. But it was also important to have the table ready when the family sat down to eat.

It was important to wash the car and take care of the things the family needed. But it was also important to make sure that the family got to read the letters that came in the mail.

His family had important jobs—but so did he.

That night, Ernest told his family that he didn’t need to do their jobs; he already had important jobs to do.

The next morning, he woke up early and watered the plants. He filled the watering can and watered the fern by the kitchen window. He looked and saw four, tiny, curled leaves just coming up out of the soil. Around each of these sprouts, Ernest dripped water slowly and watched it settle into the soil. When he was done watering the plants, he put the watering can away in the hall closet.

Ernest went into the kitchen and got down five plates. He stood on his father’s chair and put a plate on the table. Then he put a plate on the table for his mom, for Sam and for Rachael-Lin. Last of all, he put a plate on the table in the place where he sat. He went to the drawer and counted five spoons and five forks. He placed a spoon on one side of each plate. The forks went on the other side. Ernest got five cups from the shelf and put one by each plate. When he finished, he looked at the table—it looked very nice.

Skipping down the hall and outside, Ernest went out to the mailbox. There were four pieces of mail inside of it: a letter for his mother, a letter for his dad, a paper advertising a sale on strawberries at the market—and a magazine for him! It was a science magazine with pictures about fish that lived in the sea. He carried the mail into the house and placed it carefully on his mom’s desk in the family room.

Then, he went outside. He climbed up into his tree house and sat in the sun, reading about fish and about the ocean in his magazine.

THREE: Come Home to Roost

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.

Life Today at the Lake: Anhinga, Water Turtle Mother, Moor Hen Father

At the lake today, Nathan held the dogs for me while I got some fantastic shots of the young anhinga who has just come into her own and taken over her mother's place. I hadn't seen this one before last week--and haven't seen the older, mother, anhinga since the baby came out. Perhaps the mom is just on a short vacation and there will be two to watch soon.

From first of these four photos . . . top to bottom . . . I like the feeling of swift, silken . . . slip! . . . into the water.

Up until last week, I had only been able to glimpse rare appearances of the moor hens' chick families. These two teenagers, though, popped up last week--it looked like they were on their own. This week, though, I find that an adult is still keeping tabs on them. Even when I take steps towards them to get a closer look, neither of the two chicks care to enter the lake and swim away. The dad (my guess is that the mom is sitting on a second clutch of eggs at the moment) obviously loves and cares for them. The poor things are still quite ugly and bereft of true feathers. They display bounteous energy, though, so I assume that they are well fed and well-loved still.

One of the last adult ibis now living at the lake. There are a dozen or so brown junveniles, but the huge troop of white adults have completely disappeared. I haven't been visiting the lake long enough to be familiar with its seasonal rhythms, but I hope that they (along with the mother anhinga) will return soon.

I was taking photos of cattails along the edge of the lake when I turned around and saw this huge, glossy water turtle on the bank of the river. The only sight that I'd previously gotten of the lake turtles was a small point of nose above the water for an instant every now and then. This turtle, though, was not leaving her spot--even when I crouched down less than 5 feet away from her. I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out why she wasn't moving. My first inclination was to think that she was hurt. She appeared fine, but was acting very strangely. Water turtle on land--people stopping to watch her--she is not budging from her spot.

Then I notice (I am slow on the up-take) that she is LAYING EGGS. It is a National Geographic special in real life. She dug with her hind legs--edged with flat, stiff finger-claws--and then waited until the tremors of eggs coming out had passed along the back edge of her shell. Then she dug again and waited--another half-dozen ripples along the back of her shell. Every time that Nathan or I moved--or anyone walked by on the sidewalk--she lifted her head and glared at us. I imagine that she probably felt like I would were I suddenly surprised in the bathroom by a gawking group of tourists who stopped to watch me and took pictures whenever I moved.

She was brave and a good mother--waiting until everyone was gone to finally retreat back into the water. The ground where she had so diligently and determinedly deposited her eggs looked only as if someone had taken a small broom and swirled the surface of the ground in small, light circles. Incredible.

Nathan Alexander Hendry, Missionary

This is Nathan's official missionary picture. It will go on the "missionary" wall at the chapel. The ward acknowledges the missionaries that are currently serving missions by creating a small wooden plaque that has a 4" x 4" photograph of the missionary, a map of the continent with a star where that missionary is serving, and a scripture that the missionary has picked out lettered in gold print. Nathan has waited and prepared so long and so hard for this moment. I am so proud of him--I love him and am so grateful that he is my son.

He will be serving a full-time part-time mission. He will still continue his studies at college and live with Brent and me, but he will also be called to work with the Director of the Family History Center in our ward. He'll do some of his work at the library and some on-line. He is currently called for 12 months, with an interview and possible extension to serve for a total of 18 months. He does not flutter about the house like I do when I've gotten a good grade on an Algebra test (198 out of 200 on my midterm!) or taken an especially great photo (I caught a bee in mid-flight last week!), but he seems more settled, more content. I know that he has felt deeply his life-long plan to serve a mission. It has seemed like he's stuck in the rabbit hole--rushing to somewhere for something but not knowing where or what. Now he has direction and purpose and will have a start and an end to his missionary call. That is a great comfort to him and his Asperger's driven need for precision and perfection. He was born, baptized, confirmed, been given the Aaronic Priesthood, and then the Melchizedek Priesthood. The next step in his plan was always to go on a mission. It looked like that would be impossible until just a few months ago when something--I can't even say exactly what--happened inside of him.

He will be a great missionary. I congratulate him with all my heart.

A Lot of Stuff About Me and Cranes in Florida

A family of four cranes were just beginning to break up old family ties so that the parents could start a new brood. There was much hopping and flapping and "WaahaaAA AAA aaaa" evident and then the four of them would continue their progress westward down the street. We now have a lone female who visits for lunch when no one else is on property. I feel a little sorry for her, but not as sorry as I used to feel for the lone teenage boy crane who used to follow me about the yard as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

I still can't get the squirrels to trust me enough for me to feed them--but there are plenty who regularly shake down passing couples for treats as they walk by them at the lake. Absolutely enchanting. Small fuzzy, photographable creatures whom I neither need to groom, take to the vet, and/or in any way clean up after.
Love the way that the birds can reach so far being themselves to make sure that everything is in order.

A close-up of the sand crane's face. In it I see determined, clear eye below his scarlet, burpletted crown all the way down through his 6 foot wing span, and two leathery legs each ending in 3 knobby toes. This imperious face becomes very intimidating when the animal decides to fly at you--letting you know that he is in charge. The only answer for such a display is to hop up and down while "AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"-ing and flapping your arms. Especially if you are recognized as one of those whose presence signals the appearance of food, the bird quickly backs off. When we first arrived here in Florida, Brent was counseled by someone at work against feeding the cranes. His wife had gotten in the habit. All went well until she and her husband went on a short vacation and had the grandmother in to babysit. The poor woman was vociferously greeted one morning when she tried to exit the house. The cranes were used to food from the occupant of the house and they followed her ("chased" was the word originally used) and attacked. The cranes were even so bold as to peck at the screened porch door--the grandmother was overwhelmed, helpless against such a sudden and unfamiliar "attack."

Brent warned me and I complied for the first year or two that we were here. After seeing the cranes peacefully waundering about the neighborhood for that time, I decided that I could put some seed out at the end of the driveway. I did have a challenge to my authority once--about 6 months after a pair had made our house one of the regular stops on their daily rounds. That day, the seed was in an area between me and one of the cars parked in the drive way. I walked toward the car--intending to get in and drive away. I suppose that it might have been right before these two birds had mated and begun to hatch their egg/s that season, but--whatever the reason--as I approached the car, the larger of the two birds cried an alarm and hopped into the air, spreading and beating his wings to afford him the largest possible aspect. Nonplussed, I jumped up and screamed an answering bellow, flapping my arms as the bird was doing. He immediately stopped. He settled back down and watched me as I passed by him--just a foot or so away from him as I walked. He took a few steps backward and then, as soon as I was in my car, returned again to eating.

I also had a hard time with another crane. I was planting some flowers in my front yard, across the driveway from where three birds were eating. By this time we were all accustomed to each others' presence and my activities elicited no response from the birds as I began to dig holes and plant my flowers. These were tiny vinca--not much bigger than the palm of my hand. As I worked, the smallest of the three cautiously approached me. The baby (I'm assuming.) watched as I dug and puttered with the flowers. Then, coming to stand just opposite me, it reached down and pulled up the flower that I'd just planted--tossing it into the air and then digging into the newly re-created hole (I suspect following the example of the parents who also poke about in the grass, digging for grubs and worms.). I was not amused. I went and got the plant and returned it to the hole, tamping it down firmly with my hands. The crane approached me again and, again, plucked the flower from its place and tossing it out of the way.

At this point, I had had enough. I walked toward the bird, shooing it away from my plants and towards it parents--still calmly eating on the other side of the driveway. It tried to walk around me, but having had many years of herding children into the car on Sunday mornings, I easily intercepted it and it backed slowly away from me. Thinking that I had made my point, I turned back to finish planting. Not more than a moment later, the crane was back and trying to pull out that same vinca. At this point, I enacted the screaming-hopping-flapping I had learned earlier. The chick got the message and retreated back towards its parents.

It did not come near me again, but the next day I found that one of the flowers I had planted in a different part of the front had been yard snatched from its hole--and the original hole greatly enlarged. I found the poor thing, wildering beside a bush about a yard away from its original place and replanted it. No harm--no foul.

It is weird that if all the photographs that I have taken during our five years in this Florida home, in the last year, about half have been of the cranes that visit--as they come, go, court, follow, and lead each other within the confines of our acre of yard. The other half are of Florida flowers, plants, insects, animals and reptiles. Meg and La are far away doing their own things in their own families. Nathan is grown about as much as he's going to grow and, since I know his habits and routines, not really all that enthralling a subject to follow about with my camera.

It had to happen, though. I have finally have begun to find things other than my children to fill my "nest". Though I talk to Megan (hearing Jon in the background "KA! KA!") and Lauren (hearing her lovebird Mango screeching for attention in the background) at least three or four times a week, those few minutes are far from enough to keep my day full. So, I fill a bit of it with photographing the place where I live and the plants that I grow and the creatures that I am able to watch. Not so much an empty nest--just one filled with other eggs.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Lauren and Adam when they were just engaged. It was in February, in Utah, in the backyard of the home that Adam shared with some other young men (and a cat named Skeet). The light was weird enough that none of the shots came out that day. Now, however, with the magic of Photoshop, I have been able to compensate for my ignorance as a photographer and the unsteady light of the late afternoon . . . voila! In 2010, I finally have a good image of them back in 2006.

This is a picture of Roo in her "baggy" position. It reminds me of the illustrations in Peter Rabbit when he is looking for a way out of Mr. McGregor's garden.