Earlier this week, we were surprised to learn that five eagerly awaited boxes from France arrived and were waiting for pick up at the post office. My husband dashed out the door to pick up the boxes and was back home surprisingly fast.
Knowing the boxes were filled with old family books, we carefully opened them, one by one,
making sure each book was removed gently.
We took time to admire the textures, patterns,
to read the inscriptions,
and to explore their pages.
All of the books were written in French, and the girls were curious to know more about the contents of each book. Thankfully, my husband reads and speaks French, so he was able to elaborate.
After the books were all unpacked and the girls went off to play, I remained close by with my camera. In the quiet, I watched my husband explore the books,
often smiling as he read more of the inscriptions. I imagined him establishing a deeper connection to some of his relatives from generations past.
We are so fortunate to have such rich family history to pass down through our family.
I found warmth and soft light in the library on a chilly morning.
After a day full of riding bikes, zooming on scooters, and running around in the yard, our daughter decided to take a break. She reached up high on the book shelf and pulled down an old favorite: Where the Sidewalk Ends.
When I heard her reading Shel Silverstein’s “Tree House,” one of her favorite poems, I captured this moment.
A tree house, a free house,
A secret you and me house,
A high up in the leafy branches
Cozy as can be house.
A street house, a neat house,
Be sure and wipe your feet house
Is not my kind of house at all–
Let’s go live in a tree house.
Today, I’m reminded of a relaxing afternoon spent with my daughter, reading under the magnificent redwoods.
This photo awakens memories of adventures shared, cuddled under a warm blanket at bedtime. Delightful memories of being together, reading stories with our girls before going to sleep.