Blue Spruce.

The day after Thanksgiving is wrought with Tradition in my family.
We don't shop.
We don't pepper spray the masses in order to have the best pick
of Wal-Mart ladies' comfort tees.
We don't eat leftover pie
(We don't leave extra, silly. That pie gets eaten!)
The day after Thanksgiving is
always has been
and always will be
Christmas Tree Day.

Growing up, we'd go buy one from a lot.
When I moved out after high school,
it became the day I hauled the fake tree out of the box
(turns out I'm allergic to fire-retardant used on commercial lot Christmas trees).
Now, for my mother and my step-dad
it's the day they go to the Tree Farm and cut down the perfect
Blue Spruce.
Or was it white pine?
Boston fir?
Something evergreen-y.
With needles.
And a general triangular shape.

I digress.

This year marked Elena and Stella's first trip to the tree farm.
And we bought two trees.
One for Grammy and Papa,
and one for our little nook inside my mom's house.
(Which is currently skirted with a handmade tutu from a fairy party. More on that later).
Mom and the girls picked out the trees,
Papa manned the saw,
and I, of course,
took photos.

Cheers,
A

Wednesday.

I promise I'll post an update

or something of value.

Soon.

But for now,

here are a couple photos

of Elena.

Cheers,
A

Five Long Days

I got a new lens last week.
It is
without a doubt
the best thing since sliced bread.
Since the internet.
Since Essie nailpolish, and pinot noir, and coffee, and, and, and....
Since this blog! That's how amazing it is.

I bought the lens nearly a week ago,
five
full
long
days.
Five days of it staring at me,
begging me to shoot with it.

It got its wish on Saturday.

Thanks to some great weather
and the two most beautiful girls I know.

Cheers,
A

Happy Halloween

Because being nine days late is the new punctual.

Cheers,
A

Hatchet

At some point during my educational tenure I read the book Hatchet.
For those of you who aren't privy,
it's a story of a boy whose plane crashes
into a remote lake
in the boundary waters.

He's forced to live off the land
eating grubs, building camp, attempting to survive the cruel wilderness.
Eventually he is rescued and retreats back into his life of modern convenience
and comfort,
but he never forgets his time in the wild.
It sticks in his craw,
and takes up permanent residence in his soul.

That's kind-of-sort-of-I-know-it's-super-hard-to-believe-trust-me how I feel about the great outdoors.
Believe it or not,
I grew up camping.
Hunting.
Fishing.
"Roughing it."
I spent summers sleeping under the stars in a giant teepee.

In my front yard.

And I've always
always
wanted to spend a week(end) in the boundary waters
with my dad.

Just us
two kayaks
and a couple of backpacks
an old FG and an endless supply of film
(my dad has been a hobbyist photographer for years).

Someday, Dad.

It'll happen.

Cheers,
A

NaBloPoMo

It's here.
Starts today.

I'm debating whether I have the cajones to participate this year.
The time.
The material.

The interest.

(That's your cue...
tap tap...
this thing on???)

Cheers,
A