Monday, August 13, 2018

Foggy Smoky Summer Doldrums

I was going to continue my Memories posts, but with a dear friend visiting from out of state and the bleakness of the weather, I couldn't get myself motivated. I will try to continue some time this week. I've got more stories to tell.

But for now, I have taken exactly eight photos so far this month of August. EIGHT! That might be a record of photographic inactivity for me since we started blogging. It's been that foggy here. There have even been several days of minus tides, and we have not  even ventured out to take a look. You know how much we love minus tides. We feel pulled by that moon as much as the sea. We did not go.

A screenshot of the plane arriving and turning around.
The fires are raging inland. We are literally surrounded by fires. The inland heat pulls in the fog. Our dear friend was supposed to land at 8:00 last Tuesday night. That flight got cancelled, and the passengers from that flight got put on one that was scheduled to leave at 10:45 (arrival 11:30 pm). Then that one got delayed so that the takeoff was after midnight with an arrival time of 1:05 am. So, we followed the flight online and saw that it was making its way here. We arrived at the airport at 12:45 am. It's a very small airport. We were waiting for the plane; we heard it overhead; we ran outside to watch it land. Only, there was no plane in sight. We waited and waited. Then we learned that the pilot found it too foggy to land and turned around and flew back to San Francisco. Our friend spent the night in the airport there and arrived the next morning.

I told Roger when we left the house to go to the airport that night that the fog was too low for a plane to land. How could the people at the airport not know this? I saw it. I said, maybe I should have pilots call me for landing instructions. We had a good laugh!

PS-- The sun came out on Sunday, and it was 75 degrees. It felt so good! How's your summer going?

Monday, August 06, 2018

Memories Part 2--The Suburbs 1960-1965


We moved here, and oh the streets of this suburb were so quiet. We could draw our favorite games of Four Squares and hopscotch right on the street. We could take our jump ropes and our bicycles and play and ride for hours. We met all of our neighbors, families like ours with kids we would be walking to school with everyday. (Some of those kids we are still friends with on Facebook!) My parents bought a barbecue and backyard furniture. We planted flowers and bushes and dreams right there. It was an unforgettable new life that summer of 1960.

I started 3rd grade at PS 25 that September. I remember when my parents asked me how school was on the first day and if I had met anyone I would be friends with. I told them that everyone looked the same. They asked me what that meant. I said they all had blond hair and blue eyes. I realized that my first three years of school in the inner city was as racially diverse as I would ever have it. It was here in the suburbs that people started to ask me where I was from. What? I’m from New Jersey, right here. No, they wanted to know where before this? Um… Newark? Most people asked me if I was from India. It was one of the most common things asked of me when I was growing up, even by strangers in department stores.

We settled into our new life. My parents bought an above-ground swimming pool for us (round, 4 ft deep and  24 feet wide). We practically lived in that thing all summer long. Our backyard was the family gathering place for barbecues and parties. Family Thanksgiving dinners happened around our dining table, and my father carved the wildest Halloween pumpkins every year. I remember though that I stopped waking up at 3:00 am to sit with him before he went to work. The kitchen was downstairs, and the light no longer woke me up. In the winters after big snowstorms, my brothers went around the neighborhood shoveling walks and driveways. In the summers they mowed lawns. My sister and I babysat the younger neighborhood kids. There was a sense of community there on that suburban street.

My family watched TV together every night. It's crazy to think about the things we tuned into: Ed Sullivan; Gunsmoke; Petticoat Junction; Dick Van Dyke show, etc. We listened to WABC radio every morning while getting ready for school. We had a newspaper delivered everyday. News and music were an essential part of our lives. When I was 11 years old, the photo of the Buddhist Monk who had self-immolated on the streets of Saigon had a profound impact on how I saw the world. In that suburban house on a quiet street, I learned again that the world was full of pain and suffering. In fact I struck this pose in the dining room of that house while my parents were hosting my uncle’s in-laws who had flown to New Jersey from California to meet the family.

When I think of this era I remember that 1963 was a year of so much upheaval and pain. In googling back to confirm the dates of things, I was eerily reminded that it was the day after the monk's self-immolation that Medgar Evers was murdered, and in September there was a bombing in a Mississippi church that killed four young black girls. In November President Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas. How does an 11 year old who is paying attention to the world process such a time? Seriously. This is what I was learning. This was the world I was growing up in. (I remembered that I wrote a long post about the civil rights movement of this era on the blog in 2005. Here is a link to that. It's really too bad all the comments are gone from those days.)

But then music balanced our world. My parents had a nice Victrola and lots of albums. Those first few years were filled with Motown. We loved The Supremes, Marvin Gaye, The Four Tops, The Temptations, etc. We did the twist and the hop. We danced and danced in the family room. Then the world changed for us. The Beatles came to America. I am not sure I can adequately express how much this changed everything. I was 12 years old and a new art form was emerging. One of my neighbors and I were so moved by them that we wrote a song when they went back to England. If I remember correctly these were the lyrics:

There they go
Back to Liverpool
In England so so blue
Our eyes are full of tears
The Beatles are not near
Oh no no noooo
What can I say
What can I do
I am so oh so very blue
Our eyes are full of tears
The Beatles are not near
Oh no no noooo.

I laugh as I type this, but I still love that song. LOL!

We were coming of age in a time of great music and lyricism, the Vietnam war was quietly beginning, friends were marching in the street for civil rights. It was a time of such wide engagement that it’s hard to convey the full sweep of it all. By the time the 1964 elections rolled around I was a 12 year old utterly committed to Lyndon Johnson and stood with a friend outside the polling place with signs to VOTE for LBJ! (Yes, I learned to really not like him shortly after.) It's hard to imagine being 12 years old and so passionate about the whole world and everything going on in it, but I was.

By 1965 the first combat troops arrived in Vietnam, and students on campus at UC Berkeley burned their draft cards. My brothers grew their hair longer. My sister and I let our hair grow long too, and stopped curling it. We were passionately anti-war and utterly pacifists.

So as I type this more than 50 years after those days I wonder-- how did we know about all of this without the internet? We followed the news about music and politics as closely as we do now without crazy mind-deadening devices in our hands. I've been thinking about this a lot lately. We knew about rock concerts and political news; parties with friends and timely communication; major breaking news events and sales at the local stores... how did we do it? Do you ever wish you could go back to a time before this excessive connectivity? It may seem crazy to ask such a thing on a blog that only exists because of this connectivity, but would we all be writing in different venues had this one not taken over? And would we have still found each other? I wonder.

Next post will be 1965-1970. The world was rocked in so many ways.


Monday, July 30, 2018

Memories, Part 1 The City 1952-60

Last Monday my older brother sent an email to his three siblings reminding us that July 23 was the 58th anniversary of our family's move to the suburbs from the big city of Newark. My  parents had bought a split-level 3 bedroom house, and we began a new phase of our lives. My older brother was 11, my twin brother and I were 8, and my sister was 6. It was a whole new world.


Before we went to that new world, the first eight years of my life (1952-1960) were spent in the first floor apartment of this three story apartment building. We had the apartment on the left. (I added those yellow arrows to point to the apartment we were in.) There was a vacant lot where the smaller home next to it is now. We had a two-bedroom apartment. My parents had one bedroom, and my three siblings and I shared the other. My sister and I slept in one bed, my brothers slept in another. That was life for us. Upstairs on the third floor my maternal aunt, uncle and cousins lived. It was fun to have family there. One year, when my twin and I were maybe four years old my mom sent us upstairs to return some scissors. On the way, Michael cut my hair, and let's just say he didn't do a great job!

My dad was self-employed and woke up every morning at 3:00 am to drive into New York to buy cases of fresh fruits and vegetables and then drive back to Newark to sell them to the small groceries that were everywhere back then. It was long before the giant Safeways and ShopRites. Everything was mom and pop. I would wake up every morning at 3:00 and sit with him while he was having his breakfast. He wanted me to go back to bed, but I wanted to sit with him. I would walk him to the door and then I would go to those front windows and watch him drive away down the dark streets. After that I climbed into bed with my mom and went back to sleep.

When I was five, my twin brother and I went to kindergarten. My parents had arranged with the school for us to be in separate classrooms. They didn't want us competing with each other; they wanted us to have separate lives. That was pretty traumatic for me. I don't think I had ever been away from my womb-mate for so long. I was inconsolable. So the teachers decided to open the doors between the classrooms so we could see each other. It was enough for me just to be able to see his face and wave. I could concentrate on learning whatever it was they were teaching me between nap times!

When my sister started kindergarten my mom went back to work. She was the office manager for a cardiologist. After school we stayed with my grandmother while my father napped. He slept every afternoon between 1:00 and 3:00 pm, so he had enough zzzs to be ready for his 3:00 am wake up call. He cooked dinner for the family every week night.

There was a candy store on the corner that had a counter with round luncheonette stool chairs, pool tables where 1950s punk guys came to play, packs of cigarettes rolled in their tee-shirt sleeves and cigarettes hanging out of their mouths. It was quite the scene. 

Another memory that I can never forget is the time a neighbor who lived in the apartment building above that candy store drew some crosses on the sidewalk. Being Jewish, I hadn't ever really seen or noticed such a thing before. I asked her what it was. She told me the story as best a seven-year old could tell a five-year old what a cross was and who Jesus was. I was devastated. I had to go home and lay down in bed. I had never heard such a thing in my life, someone nailed to a cross. It was then I realized that humans could be more horrible to each other than I had ever imagined. I never forgot.

There were other good memories. We could walk to my maternal grandmother's apartment. We had family everywhere. There was a park where we watched bike races. We learned to ride bicycles. We went to the zoo. We played hopscotch on those sidewalks. We could hear music on the weekends from the bar down the street. We knew our neighbors. It was incredibly ethnically diverse. We learned every summer why New Jersey was called the Garden State. We had fresh corn that was"as sweet as sugar" my father would say.

That was life in the city for me. We were a family of six living in a two bedroom apartment. Then we moved to the suburbs. I will write that story soon.

PS-- The reason I'm writing this is because we sometimes make assumptions about people's lives without knowing really a single thing about them, except for what they write on their blogs and the pretty pictures they take. We have all lived long lives before these internet ones.

Monday, July 23, 2018

Walking The Neighborhood Walk

In an effort to maintain what little sanity we have left, we keep walking and walking and walking. Sunday was a five mile day. Still, even when we're out walking our neighborhood loop, seeing skies like this...
...with the hint of a halo and view that goes on forever, we still scream about Trump and what he is doing every freakin' time he opens his idiotic mouth. We say, "Wow aren't those clouds lovely? Did you see what that jerk said today about FISC (the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court)?"
We walk on and I stop to photograph the thistle entwined in the barbed wired. It reminds me of reading the news and hearing all the stories, the things that jab us and stick us and make us cringe in pain at the insanity of the times we are living in. 

We keep on walking and see the Alpacas. They always ignore us, but we always shout hello to them...



...I also always say to them, "Beware of humans. Listen to me, beware of humans." I shout that to the cows as well. We are as crazy and stupid as you think. Did you see who the president is? 

We are seriously living in unbelievable times. Are your stress management exercises working?

Monday, July 16, 2018

Minus Tide At Houda Cove

We had been planning to drive 10 miles north on Friday the 13th for an early morning walk during a -2.0 tide at Houda Cove. The lowest tide of the day was at 6:30 am, and we were ready. But when we opened the blinds and saw how low the fog was here two miles in from the coast, we knew it would be crazy to head out. We wouldn't be able to see a thing out there. So we waited for Saturday morning when the tide was still a -2.0 and at a more reasonable hour of 7:30 am. We woke Saturday morning to the clearest skies we've seen for a while. We got our stuff ready-- tea and toast, kibble for Harold who we planned to feed before we headed for the short drive north. Then we looked out the window again... oh no... the fog was blowing back in. We thought about it and decided to go anyway, and we are so glad we did. This is what we saw when we arrived. The hint of fog made for wonderful optics, and the blue sky over the Pacific was perfect.
The beach was still in the dark shadows of the hillside. We walked down the long stairway,  headed toward the ocean and then turned around to look where the sun was just coming up over the hill.

This is what we saw,  a beautiful view of crepuscular rays lighting up the beach there. What a grand start to the day! We met a woman who was looking at the rays as well. She asked us if we were planning on going into the cave that's only approachable at minus tides. We said, "No way! We've watched the videos of the kids trapped in the cave in Thailand. No no no!" She said, "It's only 60 feet deep and worth the trip. Mmm... we wondered, should we do it? So of course we did. It was pretty interesting in there.
Roger at the back of the cave photographing me walking out
There was lots of sea life on the walls, particularly close to the opening. Here I am walking back into the light.
We walked north on the beach for a while and the sun continued to light the beach in the most beautiful way.
And in every direction the views were grand.
 This is the rock that has the cave. It's nice to see it from the outside too!

We spent quite a while out there-- breathing in the ocean air, walking, laughing, and skipping over water flowing into the ocean. And for a little while the whole world was just this, and it was perfect.

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

the bums go to the beach

we went to mad river county park, hoping to see the rivermouth and some seals. i think that the rivermouth must have been near when the park was made. now the river parallels the beach going north, where the ocean relentlessly pushes it.


endless waves




himself looking for the river mouth. there is a sliver of the river visible to the right.





the area

we had thought to walk north from the parking lot on a trail closer to the river and return along the shore. when we couldn't find the trail at the parking lot we struck off across the dunes to the beach, turned north and walked happily looking out at the ocean waves pictured above and relaxing in their calming low rushing sound. we explored inland toward the river about a mile up the beach. grassy tufts, sand, minor dunes, low scrub brush, no trail. so returned to the beach and strolled on back to the trail through the dunes to the car. actually the most tiring part of the walk, on soft sand.

when we lived in arcata 10 years ago we would park at the end of murray road (see map above) and walk down along the river to see its mouth right there.

here is a bit of interesting history of the mad river. i wonder if the diversion of water to the canal (use the link. read the short informative article) started the rivermouth on its journey north.

Monday, July 09, 2018

Great Egret Rookery


We drive by a Great Egret rookery whenever we head into the city of Eureka. We drive over the 255 bridge that crosses Humboldt Bay. There are NO PARKING signs posted everywhere, so we can't ever stop to take a photo of them, but we have been admiring them for the past four years. I can't tell you the number of times I've tried to photograph them from the car when we're zooming by. I know you know that does not work at all. When we were at the Family United rally last Saturday I noticed that I could see the rookery from the waterfront there. It's pretty far away, but definitely visible. So, we went back on Tuesday to get a better look.
To give you some idea of how far away this rookery is from the waterfront. Here's a perspective for you.
Beyond the boats and the statue on Woodley Island is Indian Island where the Monterey Cypress trees stand. On those trees is the rookery. Beyond the rookery is the bridge we drive over to get into town. It would be grand to get a photo from the bridge, but that's a no-no. I did find an article in a local newspaper from 2011 that talked about the history of the rookery, and the non-native trees the egrets have been using for more than a hundred years!
On a beautiful summer day it really is lovely at the waterfront. And with a good zoom I can also get a nice close-up the Fisherman statue.
Lots of fishing, crabbing, and oyster production been going on here for a long, long time. No wonder the egrets love it.

Monday, July 02, 2018

Signs of the Times

It's been almost 50 years since I marched in protest. The last significant march I participated in was in Washington DC on May 10, 1970. That day 100,000 people marched to protest the shooting of four people by the National Guard on the Kent State campus in Ohio. My siblings and I drove from New Jersey to participate. We had marched many times before then, throughout the late 60s protesting the war in Vietnam. Some of those marches were local, some were big and loud on the streets of Newark. I remember the ride home from that Washington DC Kent State protest. The world had changed, it seemed. I was just about to turn 18 years old and graduate from high school. My family was getting ready to move to California in June. We were leaving the old world behind and heading west to make a new life. My marching days were over...
Roger and one of the other early marchers!
...until this past weekend. On June 30th Roger and I went to a Families Belong Together rally and march in Eureka. We arrived early, forgetting in a way that we live in an unpopulated part of the world and that there would be plenty of parking for everyone. When we got there it was mostly quiet except for the organizers and some musicians singing some fine old folk tunes. It would be a good half hour before 1500 more people showed up with the signs of the times.
We saw so many wonderful homemade signs. It was grand to be out there with our fellow citizens.


There were speakers who told stories of incarceration, of ICE harassment, of family separations. A representative of our Congressman's office spoke. Then, we were ready to march the streets of Eureka!
Lucky for us the rally was held at the beautiful waterfront there. So, as we marched we saw got to breathe the beautiful sea air before we headed on to the streets.

The local newspaper reported that we were three blocks long of chanting impassioned protesters. The front of the march was so far ahead of us, we didn't even hear what they were chanting.

We marched. We shouted. We were glad to add our voices to the sum of voices for humanity and sanity. It felt good to march again after all these years.

Monday, June 25, 2018

Walking It Off


Canada Goose family at one of the ponds
We've been walking miles and miles everyday. We start before 7:00 in the morning for our first mile bringing the skinny black kitty cat (who we've named Harold and now has an appreciative full belly) some kibble. He sits on the driveway and waits. There are always empty food bowls strewn about. I carry a small bag of kibble in my pocket. He gets up and walks over as soon as he sees us. I'm not sure I wrote it here, but I got to go inside the house to drop of 25 pounds of kibble we had picked up at Costco last week. There is more than a hundred pounds of kibble in there, plus a case of large Friskies wet food. Harold is old, and now he is loved. There's plenty of food for everybody.
Black-crowned Night Heron looking for fish
Then, we walk home, have tea and toast and plan another couple of miles of walking. Some days it's a trek to the co-op for something (two miles round trip). So we check our lists to see what we need.We like that we can run some errands and get in a three mile walk before noon. That's life in our small college town.
Great Blue Heron
If we don't have to go to the co-op for anything we'll take a short drive over to the marsh for a good three mile walk there. In the summer there really aren't many birds. Most of the beautiful migrators have come and gone. The locals are spending lots of time on their nests. So, we don't get to see many feathery friends. When we do, though, we are really so glad.
Black-crowned Night Heron walking in the tidal flats
We are planning to go to a march next weekend to protest our country's treatment of immigrants and their children. To say we are outraged, appalled, brokenhearted, and stunned would be an understatement. My older brother went to a detention center on Saturday with hundreds of others to protest. We must each take a stand for humanity. If not now, when?

Until then, we go walking. We're walking off the stress of these times we are living in. What are you doing for stress management these days? We'd love to know.

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Wordless Wednesday: Look Closely

There in the river an egret stands
The egret in the river
There on the other side of the river Harbor Seals sleeping
The seals so far away and easy to miss
There in the horsetail grass a frog rests comfortably
The perfect froggy camouflage on a sunny day

Monday, June 18, 2018

Sunshine and Minus Tides

It finally happened. The fog and clouds left us. The morning sun has been rising in a clear blue sky. Luckily this break in the usual foggy summer pattern coincided with a significant -2.0 tide these past few mornings. So, we headed out to Trinidad Beach to walk to the beautiful beds of seaweed.

We drove 15 miles up the coast and got there at 7:30 about an hour before the lowest tide. Of course I had to stop and photograph this sea foam, but really I just love seeing Roger heading out to the tides.
The light was crazy out there and really hard to photograph anything. The sun was just coming up over the hills so there was lots of shadows and blinding brightness everywhere.

We headed north, going around the glimmering pools left behind by the retreating tide.
I'm not even sure why we wanted to see the seaweed gleaming brightly in the morning light.
Maybe just because we could. Because it was sunny. Because the tide was low and our spirits were high. Then we sat and had the tea and toast we had brought with us and watched other people arrive to take in such a beautiful morning.

PS-- It feels absurd to post photos and write about how lovely it is to take early morning minus tide walks when our country is carrying on in the most outrageous and horrific way. We don't know what to say that hasn't already been said by so many. We walk in our glorious freedom while children are being held in camps separated from their parents. The truth of this is so profoundly disheartening. That this is what our country has become is shattering and heartbreaking. What then must we do?

Monday, June 11, 2018

The Skinny Kitty Cat Story

Our Facebook friends already know this story, but we wanted to share it here as well. I posted this on Friday there:
We've all heard the "crazy old cat woman" stories, and this morning Roger and I met one. We were out for our usual 7:00 am neighborhood walk, when we noticed the saddest skinniest little cat on a driveway. It looked so bedraggled and forlorn. I went over to it to pet it. I could feel all of its bones. It had unbelievable crap in its eyes. It made me feel so bad, we walked home fast, went to the market and bought two cans of cat food. We drove back to the house to find the cat, when the front door opened and the crazy old cat lady came out. Oh yes, she has many strays she feeds. There were empty food bowls strewn about the yard. I went into her back yard and several cats ran away, but the skinny black one came over to me. I opened a can of food and fed it. Roger stayed out front talking to the cat lady. Yes, she feeds them, but definitely not enough. We're going to bring her a bag of kibble every week, and I'm fighting the urge to go and get that skinny black kitty cat and bring it home.
It received a lot of good, kind, supportive, and thoughtful comments. One was from a woman we know locally who recommended that we contact someone she knew who does cat rescues around our neighborhood. She gave me her contact info; I messaged her and so began a day of communication. She was out trapping cats, dealing with kittens, and all kinds of other kitty cat issues. Her work is full of kindness and support. She helps people get strays neutered/spayed; she connects people who find cats in need of medical support; she delivers food. She couldn't get over to the skinny cat's house on Friday, so we promised we would head over there on Saturday, bring more food and find out a little more details of what was going on with the cats.

Skinny cat eating the kibble we had just brought over
On Saturday, we learned that the old cat woman has five cats, one is hers and four are strays. She feeds them all as best as she can. She knows nothing of their histories, whether they need to be neutered or spayed, if they've had their shots, etc. She was very grateful for the food we had delivered.

We reported that information to the helpful cat lady. She made it over to the old woman's house on Sunday morning. She wrote me this note. I changed the name to initials so as to keep the old woman's identity private:
Hi Robin, I went by to see CB and the cats. I spent some time with them. The cats that I saw are all elderly. I think they are too old for spay, neuter. CB says she hasn’t ever had kittens, which tells me they are most likely fixed. They seek shelter under her house, so that makes me feel better. I think they could benefit from good cat food, and CB was grateful to you for donating food to her cats. I agree, she’s a bit limited by finances and energy (she’s in her 80’s.) The old black guy on her porch is a lovely cat, he’s just very old, which is why his appearance is a little alarming. I looked at him carefully, and his eyes are goopy, but his nose is clear, which is a good sign. Rehoming him would be too traumatizing to him at this age. 
I have to say I was so relieved that the skinny black kitty cat is really too old to be rehomed. I was still fighting the urge to go and get him Sunday morning. He really is very sweet. I posted this follow-up on Facebook:
I would like to hope for every crazy old cat lady there's a good and kind cat person who goes around neighborhoods trying to make life easier for old strays and kittens. The latest update on the kitty cat saga is that the skinny cat we saw last week is very old and would not benefit from rehoming. His eyes are goopy but his nose is clear (doesn't that sound like song lyrics?), which is good sign. The good cat lady spoke with the old woman who was appreciative of the kibble we dropped off yesterday morning. We will continue to supply food weekly. We are relieved and our hearts are lightened by this news. Friends, if you see an animal in distress please help when you can and find those with hearts so big they do the real heavy lifting.
We went to the store after getting the update and bought 12 cans of food and another bag of kibble. We will help on a regular basis. I'm not a big fan of outdoor cats and strays, but college towns often have issues like this when students leave and people move on and let their kitty cats stay behind. It's not their fault. So, we help as best we can. And, that's our skinny kitty cat story.

Wednesday, June 06, 2018

Poem On A Wednesday

I find myself so full of despair lately. This land on earth that I call "my country" is heading down a path so terrible I simply cannot believe the times we are living in. And yet here we are. I was reminded of the poem by Wendell Berry 'The Peace of Wild Things" because those first lines are where I am. So, I go looking for the peace...
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives might be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.  I come into the presence  of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Monday, June 04, 2018

Photoshopping The Grandkids

It's funny how things get started. We were watching our grandson Ian a few weeks ago while his mom ran some errands. She had put out a box of Legos and said, "Have fun!" So, we did. Roger built something and decided to put a little plastic Yoda in it. I said, "Hey it looks like Yoda is meditating." Ian said, "We meditate at school," then proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor, hands in that classic meditation position, eyes closed. I loved it! A few weeks later both grandkids came to visit. I mentioned to their mom how much I loved seeing Ian meditating. Delilah shouted, "We meditate at my school too." Then she, Ian and Roger sat on the floor together and meditated. I couldn't resist taking their photos. But when I downloaded the pics, I didn't like the light in the living room or the crayons and kid books strewn about on the floor. So, this is what I did...
 ...I photoshopped them meditating on top of the earth with the moon in the background. It was a fun way to spend a foggy cloudy day. The perfect cosmic diversion.

Then the grandkids came by for another visit just the other day. We were hanging around, drawing pictures and looking at rocks, when I remembered the photo I had made of them. So I grabbed the computer and said, "Hey kids, take a look at this." Well, they loved it and immediately wanted me to photoshop them into other scenes.

Delilah posed like this and wanted it to be on strawberry ice cream...

...and Ian posed and wanted to be on a penquin.
They thought I could do it just like that while they waited. I had to tell them it takes a bit of time to make this happen. But I did get to it a few days later and made these. Delilah wants to also be put on a rose, and Ian wants to be in a tractor. I'll do it for them because that's what crazy grandmas do. They photoshop the grandkids into scenes they love. I also hope it will teach them to question the validity of images they see. Because I know they know these moments never happened in real life... or did they?