Photos stir memories for me, often when the image has minimal connection. This picture is of apples in Door County, Wisconsin. Our friends were invited by neighbors to pick apples from their trees. Of course, I couldn't help taking photos. I do remember these apples were as delicious as any I ever had, maybe more so. I recall that day, and our wonderful friends, and the fun. 

Memories also flow about all of the orchards we have visited over the years, from my childhood and through parenting years. And cider donuts at the Myers Orchard east of Centralia.

But my first memory that surprised me when I saw this image again on my computer screen involved my freshman year at the University of Illinois. My high school classmate had noticed that the apple trees at the home of the university president were loaded with fruit. We could climb the fence and pick some. We did. We weren't caught and we likely picked no more than two each. I suspect we were not the first, nor the last. I don't think they tasted as good as the ones we were invited to pick in Door County.

A ubiquitous item at many roadside harvest stands is flint corn, known as calico or indian corn. Flint corn is different from other varieties of corn in ways other than color. The water content is much lower with a higher starch content. Yes, it's edible. Often ground and used for hominy, but I'm not a fan so I cannot attest to this. This multi-colored corn has been grown for centuries although the ears we see for sale are the results of the past 50 years of hybridization. 

This diversity of color remind me of my neighbors. We live at the end of a mile long road with twelve houses clustered at the last half. And living in those twelve houses are people from all over the world. A couple from Laos who have an incredible love story, a family from China that are conservative Christians, a multi-generational family from Honduras who are amazing brick masons, an older couple from Vietnam who came to the US after the war because he helped the CIA, a younger couple from Vietnam who own a number of nail salons, three Kurdish families who have become quite prosperous, and even a veterinarian from Memphis who lives with her parents. I need the Google translator sometimes to communicate with my neighbors. I am learning about Islam and Buddhism and eating food that was not familiar in my childhood. The new house being built next-door for a large Kurdish family has had lots of hard-working Mexican men construct it. They listen to happy music with lyrics I don't understand. 

More than 1/8 of the population of Nashville is foreign born. Outside the tourist areas, Nashville looks a lot like America. And calico corn.

Among the 150 daylilies that are cared for by Judy is one we have had for some time, "Buttered Popcorn". While the blooms of daylilies last only one day, we have sizeable clumps of most varieties so that a particular plant may bloom for six weeks or longer. And each one has been hybridized for blooming at a specific time. So, in our garden, some varieties will start blooming in early May while others may not start until August. And then some rebloom again, much later that the first onset. "Buttered Popcorn" is one of those that bloom in June and is blooming again in October. Same time as last year and the year before.

I marvel at these rhythms in nature. The moon has a 28-day cycle.  Birds migrate at nearly the same time in fall and spring. I get distracted by chaos and noise. My spirit craves centering and quiet and calm. I just need to pay attention.

October has begun at the Hideaway, yesterday actually. We covered the swimming pool with the leaf net that will remain over the top of the water into February probably. The water temperature yesterday reached a high of 75. One of my swimming friends who visited last year would tell me she could still swim in 75-degree water. No doubt, she could, and would, and likely has. But too chilly for me. Otherwise, it's still summer here. Fall color won't visit here until the end of the month.

Last year, we traveled to the Northeast to visit dear friends in New Hampshire. And when you visit Gerry and Christie, you will spend a lot of time outdoors. And we did. This photo is from one of our shared outings. The weather was not the best and the fall color was rather dull. And in those kinds of circumstances, I like to use a feature on my cameras that create watercolor-like images. This practice encourages me to seek compositions. I am challenged to see the scenes differently, similar to my early days as a photographer when I shot with black and white exclusively.

I've tried my hand at painting. My sister is a talented painter. I am not. However, I can pursue a similar effect with my camera. I suspect it's not fair. the images my sister creates take time. I push a shutter and then add some processing in a software program. And I have a painting! I even got this image printed on canvas. I look forward to seeing it next week. By the way, this scene is in the sand dunes of Plum Island on the coast of northern Massachusetts. Just sand and vegetation and rocks, no water.

I hope friends and family get to see a full eclipse on Monday, April 8. I got to experience one in my backyard on August 21, 2017. Quite the experience that builds over an hour or so, reaches the magic moment for just seconds, and then the eclipse begins to reverse. Amazing!

I did not want to be standing in the chilly spring drizzle. But there I was. Waiting, praying. What was I, a young pastor, going to say to family members who would soon pass by, and see the first responders huddled in their mother's driveway?

Moments earlier I had been helping a group of volunteers wallpaper the parsonage kitchen. But our project was interrupted by an urgent call about one of my parishioners.

It was the days of double-digit inflation with a dizzying escalation of interest rates. Rising interest rates are fine if you are an investor, but debilitating and devastating if you borrow. Virginia had to borrow. Her husband had died the year before and left her with a farm whose major crop was bank payments. The previous fall had been the wettest in decades and the fields were too muddy to harvest, so the over-borrowed and under-priced crops bowed soggy along the country roads all through Christmas into February. In the cold gray rain, the fields were full of ruined hope.

And now, in the spring, when farmers usually decided what to plant and how much more to borrow, Virginia had made another decision. What in the world had made her think death was better than life?

Amidst the familiar passages for Palm Sunday are these jarring portions from Psalm 31: "Have mercy on me, Lord, because I'm depressed. My vision fails because of grief... My life is consumed with sadness..." (CEB) The words are jarring only because our image of this Sunday is colored by a parade of children waving palm leaves. However, don't these ancient words express a too-common experience, especially during these past two years?

The events of Holy Week can appear to be ruined hope. But that's true only if you leave early, before the ending. So here we are at the edge of expectation.

In death--life.  In sin--mercy.  And in the cold and gray, there is still hope in joyous resurrection.

A friend asked after reading about my granddaughter's softball activity if I had played on a school team. No, but I had imagined being an athlete. I wanted to be a catcher. I used my paper-route money to buy a catcher's glove, which I still have. But I never played on any organized team. We would play after school, although we never had enough players so we would take turns batting and fielding. I wasn't proficient at either. 

We played basketball at the outside courts and would scoop off the snow so we could shoot around. But again, I wasn't good at shooting or dribbling. I imagined being a scuba diver. I again bought a snorkel, and a mask, and fins with money from my paper route. But I couldn't swim. I didn't learn to swim beyond floating until I was a freshman in college. Admittedly, I have had an active adulthood with cycling and swimming and regular workouts at a gym. 

Still, I marvel at a granddaughter who excels in a sport. I enjoy watching her play. I celebrate her skills, batting and fielding. I'm proud that she encourages her teammates, and that she is developing leadership skills. And I'm grateful for her parents who have supported her in so many ways and spent so many hours watching her sit on the bench when she was younger. My granddaughter imagines some athletic accomplishments too, but she's a lot closer to achieving her goals than her grandfather when he was a kid. She's an athlete.

This image is of a very worn, ancient ball glove at the Tennessee State Museum.

The blooming season in our yard, if you don't count the hellebores, begins in March. But the number of blooming plants increases as April nears. We have three different kinds of jonquils in thirty different bunches scattered in the front and back yards. This particular variety, which I do not know the name, is the last one to bloom. Most of the others are still blooming. The tulips are blooming, as are the bleeding hearts, virginia bluebells, and phlox. Columbine will bloom Thursday or Friday. Azaleas are already showing the color of their blossoms. Bring it on! April provides the beginning of the show!