Tuesday, April 22, 2014
My father died on Good Friday morning.His funeral yesterday was a wonderful celebration of a long life well lived. I was intensely proud to be one of Bill Martin's daughters. He touched many lives in one way or another and we three Martin girls aren't the only ones missing him today.
Friday, April 11, 2014
I'm nearing the end of my 24-hour trip back home. I'll be returning to my family this afternoon as we wait for my father's passing. A quick check of my blog reading list revealed that this weekend is photo challenge weekend. I've dipped into my archives once again to share my attempts at macro photography. Any success I've had in this photo genre is mostly good luck! Here are a few of my best.
This is a ring my father brought back from World War II. He was indeed at Anzio in 1944.
This is my wedding ring, which first belonged to my grandmother, Edith Eskew,
who married my grandfather, Merrida Richmond, in 1917.
The winter of 2010 brought us snow measured in feet. With my Canon Powershot and
some cropping and enlarging on the computer, I was able to capture these individual snowflakes.
Last summer, I caught this rose at just the right moment as it opened up.
I'm thinking this shot is my only true macro shot, as I believe there is a difference between closeups (which most of my other photos are) and macros, which get closer than the human eye can see comfortably.
This is a crocus in my yard a few springs ago.
I'm linking up with A Personal Photo Challenge today. Due to my family's circumstances, I don't know if I'll be able to visit the other sites and leave comments, but I'll try. If you like photography and you're reading this post, please consider joining us in the photo challenge every month. It's a great way to learn and polish your skills.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
I'm typing this on the hospital's public computer in the lobby and the keyboard doesn't feel right. But as difficult as it is, being here feels right. My sisters and I are taking turns sitting with my dad as he travels toward heaven. For us, it's a slow journey. For him, who knows? He's still close enough to speak to us sometimes, if we can understand his laborious words. And sometimes, it's obvious that he's well on his way and seeing sights we can't see. When this journey is over, we'll be sad, but all right. After 94 years, Dad deserves the joyful rest of heaven, and because of that we can choose to be "happy sad." But Dad has no estimated time of arrival for this journey. And so we wait.