Sam once again gathers up reality, spins it through his artist brain, and sends it back out with a few improvements:
The sky really was that spectacular. But the painting captures the feeling better than the photos do!
Monday, September 24, 2012
After several years of driving by and saying, "That looks fun!", I finally took the kids up to Snowbird to ride the tram. We loved it. It goes all the way up to the top of a mountain, 11,000 feet. There's been such a haze of smoke in the air lately, and even though I think it was still lingering around, we felt like we were above it all up there. The views were hazy but gorgeous.
As we rode the tram, it was so pretty to look down and see the colored leaves below---like a quilt.
And our little shadow.
And the drive through the canyon was just as spectacular. A couple weeks ago the leaves seemed dull and I was afraid something about the drought had affected the colors.
But apparently not!
These reds against the greens were so beautiful!
Saturday, September 22, 2012
This is the time of year when I post one million pictures of the changing leaves. These are from Millcreek Canyon. Malachi had just given a talk about Moses and the Burning Bush in Primary, and as soon as we saw this one, he yelled out, "Mommy! Look! The burning bush!"
Just as amazing in context
And here are a few from Big Cottonwood Canyon:
Thursday, September 6, 2012
This is the walker. She is unsteady, but increasingly determined. Thank goodness, as she has gotten very heavy these past few months!
Sometimes she sits
She finds a better place to sit . . .
and is joined by another sitter.
Sebby, King of the Mountain
Four children sitting in their "house" (this was the dining room)
She has things to say about the campfire.
She grins the fake "camera smile." I do believe this is the first time she has done this, but I know the smile itself well, having seen it on four other little monkeys.
There is some serious and important business going on, however. Serious marshmallow business.
About to pay perfectly browned dividends.
Sebby reacts to something with amazement
The walker, having dazzled everyone with her walking, begins to go through the rest of her repertoire.
The fire flares up, to general joy and astonishment
Sparks rise, and are marveled at
And finally, under the last rosy light on the mountaintops, we reluctantly head home
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
I came into your room to say goodnight a few minutes ago. I was coming in to give Daisy and Malachi "all the kisses" (our nightly ritual), but unlike several months ago, you didn't just lie there, watching the rest of us and sucking your fingers. You consider yourself fully one of the people now, so you kicked your legs and yelled out "Amnny abbada didddaaaaa?"---with that characteristic upward inflection at the end; that squeaky, screechy question mark that tells us you're asking nicely. I don't know if you're actually saying the words "Can you give me all the kisses?", but who cares? YOU understand you perfectly, and come to that, so do I! I fully believe that you have the entire wealth of the English language sitting there in that soft fuzzy head of yours, just waiting to emerge as soon as your lips and tongue will cooperate. After all, it was before you were even a year old that we saw the effect of your brothers' and sister's constant (and oh, Junie, it is constant!) singing around the house. We had recently watched "The Music Man" for movie night, and the other children had every word memorized. In a rare moment of quiet, I heard you holding a long, low note in your throat: "Maaaaaaaa . . . " It sounded like . . . but it couldn't be . . . but yes, ten seconds later you completed the phrase: "-rian! Madame Libraaaaaaaaa . . . -rian!" It was unmistakeably "Marian, Madame Librarian," and when you saw how much we laughed at that, you did it for us several more times. Such a smart baby! I knew then we were in for a delightful next few years watching you grow into that busy little brain of yours.
But then, it's all been delightful, this sixteen months since you came, blue and fishy, into our arms. You're such a mystery to us, as all our babies are, in their different ways. You were serene in those first moments, wise and calm as you stared into my eyes and I held you, murmuring, "So there you are! So that's who you are!" You did make us wait for a long time, you know, before coming---five days of labor; a shifting, unreal web of moments that wrapped thicker and thicker around me and made the real world grow dim. But then you finally arrived, so delicate and tiny, and your peaceful, steady gaze reassured me that we had done the right thing by not hurrying you along. "I told you it would be okay," your eyes said to me, and I breathed in your calm like air.serenity. You are utterly untroubled by our expectations: at sixteen months, you're just barely deciding to walk, and none of our coaxing and cajoling made one bit of difference. Not that we were worried about you, developmentally---it's just that you're getting so HEAVY! Yes, you; our tiny little birdie, the one so far below the weight charts that the doctor was telling us to butter both sides of your bread---you are becoming quite a load to tote! But you wouldn't walk until you decided it was time to walk, so tote you we have. Meanwhile you have been talking up a storm---in addition to your singing. The best part of your talking is how conversational you are! You seem absolutely convinced that your gibberish-words are just as good as anybody else's in this family, and something recognizable emerges from you often enough that I'm not sure you aren't right! Certainly, when I was serving up brownies after lunch the other day, and I asked who wanted one, I heard: "I do!" "I do!" "I do!" "I do!" "I do!"---and that fifth "I do!" was YOU, little Junie, taking me quite by surprise. You yell "Hiii," and "Bye-bye!" and "Cookie" and "Blanket" and "Night-night!" at appropriate times; you call out "'kaaaay!" from upstairs when I call the family for dinner; you say "Hab goodday!" as Daddy goes out the door for work. When we went to Flaming Gorge last week, you pointed and said "There's the dam!" as we crossed over it on our tour. I guess maybe I should stop being surprised by you, but I have a feeling I never will.
It's not just pens and lotions you like to share with your Daddy and me, but also little darting glances of either excitement or apprehension, depending on the circumstance. You read faces as earnestly as someone searching the skies to read the weather. If the rest of us are laughing, you turn your eyes toward me or your brothers delightedly, grinning that tiny grin you've recently developed, and letting your whole face shine with the joy of sharing the joke. If someone else cries, you pull your lips in until they're just a tiny rosebud in your face, and your chin trembles while you search our faces for reassurance. When we're talking about you, you send surreptitious glances over every few seconds, gauging how funny we think you are and whether or not you should pull your blanket over your head for another round of peek-a-boo.