Saturday: Daybook Notes

"Fear not November's challenge bold. We've books and friends,

and hearths that never can grow cold. These make amends."

    attributed to ALEXANDER L. FRASER

Outside my window: This morning we have overcast, moody grey skies, and snow is in the forecast. Blue jays fly in looking for breakfast, recognizable shrieks announce their arrival. Which makes me smile; it's as if they're saying, we're here, be sure the peanuts are out.

Inside my head: At the moment, I feel a similarly moody grey. Perhaps it's not quite enough sleep, or maybe I was hoping for winter sunshine to perk up the weekend.

What I'm wearing: Black jeans, patterned cotton t-shirt, grey cardigan, scent.   

Two lovely books I read this week: First, Elizabeth Berg's 1996 novel The Pull of the Moon which is the story of a 50-plus woman named Nan who, going through the change of life, runs away from home and husband to take a road trip by herself. It becomes a look back as she recalls what she once dreamed when she was young and eager for life. . .before life got tangled in all the should and have-to's. Mostly Nan hopes, as she writes on-the-road letters to her husband of where she is and what she sees, that she can say on paper what she feels stifled to say face to face. She hopes he'll hear her, listen to what she's saying. But even if he doesn't, she's learning to be true to herself again. This gently written story is both poignant and humorous, with LOL moments I found delightful, especially when I recognized myself in them. A lovely read. I came away wonderfully grateful to be a part of the world's great company of women, knowing we can arrive at this season in our lives and know we're not alone in it.

The other book I finished is Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times by British author Katherine May. In it she explores those literal and metaphorical dark seasons in our lives, sharing her own journey and how she has struggled to find the way through them. The book is beautifully written and has many nourishing, encouraging lines I've underlined and starred. Here are a few that touched me:

• "Like the robin, we sometimes sing to show how strong we are, and sometimes sing in hope of better times. We sing either way."

• "I began to get a feel for my winterings: their length and breadth, their heft. I knew that they didn't last forever. I knew that I had to find the most comfortable way to live through them until spring."

• "Plants and animals don't fight the winter; they don't pretend it's not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives that they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt. They perform extraordinary acts of metamorphosis to get them through."

• "He told her that they could keep tinkering with her medication, but it would never solve everything. 'This isn't about getting you fixed', he said. 'This is about you living the best life you can with the parameters that you have.' "

I participated in: A writers' retreat via Zoom last weekend. It was called Heal Create Writers Retreat led by a fellow in California named Jacob Nordby. There was a lovely lineup of speakers; I mainly signed up when I heard Julia Cameron and Anne Lamotte were speaking. Both were wonderful to catch live. Below are a handful of nuggets that stuck out for me. Perhaps they'll sparkle for you too, as you get on with your own projects, of whatever nature they might be.

• Julia Cameron. "Lower the bar" (of expectation). She said she writes two pages per day every day rather than aiming for 20 pages and only accomplishing it sometimes. "Easy" accomplishes it, she says. Probably good advice from someone who's written forty books.

• Julia Cameron. "Grab time". Don't wait for swaths of time. We all have 10 or 20 minutes here and there. Grab those few minutes to write. Grabbing time also works when I'm procrastinating for whatever reason, or I am overwhelmed by the size of the project. Deciding to focus on one small task for even 10 minutes often releases me from feeling frozen with impossibility. Flow happens from there.  

• Julia Cameron on perfectionism. "If I didn't have to do it perfectly, I'd try." Doesn't that lift a load off?

• Anne Lamott: "Stop not writing". This was in response to all the excuses we use for not working on our projects, writing or otherwise.

I am looking forward to: Putting up my new 7-foot pencil evergreen tree festooned with permanent yellow-warm white lights. I loved it as soon as I saw it set up and lit at Michael's the other day. It was even on sale. I find so many of the new LED Christmas white lights are in a cool blue light, which to my view is not cozy at all. I brought the tree home eager to set it up, but.... hubby might look at me and wonder if he should call the 'Christmas police' as this is far too early for Christmas trees, even though it is snowy and dark and cold outside. This year though, I don't think I can wait until December. I'm longing to see twinkle lights now in that dark corner of the living room. So, I'll just set it up one day when he's out shovelling, or something. He'll grin and pretend he's mad and then enjoy it with me. hehe

On that note: Time has past since I started this post. I look up from my computer screen. The day outside brightened and writing today lightened my greyish frame of mind. Some friends stopped in for tea and blueberry almond muffins. We tried out a new box of Twinings Christmas Tea with cinnamon and cloves—it was delicious. As I type these final words, from my window I see the sky is now turning a pale cotton candy pink in the westerly direction. It's just 4:35 in the afternoon and already it grows dusk. I love this time of year. Time to turn on some lights, including the cozy lamp on my desk. 

❦

Wishing you a pleasant evening,

Brenda

Photo Credits:

Top Image by Melanie from Pixabay

Five on Friday: "Of Little Things"

"Everyone is trying to accomplish something big,

not realizing that life is made up of little things."

FRANK A. CLARK

And with a flip of the calendar, snow arrived in these parts. Although not with a real vengeance—it fell quietly, without bluster—still there was a concerted effort in a few short hours to wipe out all remaining evidence of autumn's remnants. 'Twas a shock to wake up to. We've been so lucky-blessed to have lovely autumn weather right up until November 1st. As you know, I love winter and I love snow, but this year I've been quite happy to pretend I don't live in northerly Alberta where winter can arrive as early as September or October. With the days so delightfully mild for so long, all thoughts of winter or Christmas have been held at bay, including any thoughts of decorating in that vein. For it seemed inharmonious in my mind, no matter how late in the year the calendar says it is. But with the snow's arrival, I feel a shift in my mind.

The Frank A. Clark quote above resonated when I read it on a Twitter friend's blog post. Especially the phrase... 'that life is made up of little things'. So true. What matters in the end are the little things in life. I think so many of us recognize that to be so. In that light, today on Five on Friday, I happily share little things from my week, nothing earth shattering but each meaningful in some small way. Hope you enjoy.

— one —

I brought out Susan Branch's recipe book Heart of the Home that snowy morning to make a big pot of her Bean Soup (p. 35) which uses smoked ham hocks. While it snowed outside, soup simmered through the afternoon, filling the house with yummy smells. Paired with warm corn muffins, the meal hit the spot on a cold and snowy evening.

— two —

This week my Twitter friend Diane posted a short piece called bucket list on her blog. I thought it worth a read. I especially enjoyed her mention of a woman's bucket list for her beloved dog. It turns out the both of us had been listening to the same CBC radio program the other morning. And we both were touched by that story. What a lovely feeling of connectedness to a fellow Canadian I only know through social media. Anyways, pop over THERE for the rest of the story.

— three —

When the snow fell earlier this week, I could feel the slow shifting of my thoughts as they moved from autumn to winter, to Christmas. Snow and cold is always the trigger. Which made me think about Jacquie Lawson's wonderful e-Advent Calendar, something many of us enjoy each December. Well, suddenly there arrived the announcement in my inbox, as if by some thread of magical synchronicity: the 2022 Sussex Advent Calendar is now available for purchase, and you can find out more HERE. I'm off to place my order. Oh joy, oh bliss!

— four —

Brenda @ Coffee Tea Books and Me noted in her recent post that an author friend of hers often mentions that she needs beautiful, peaceful places in her home where her eyes can stop to rest a moment. Brenda goes on to say, "It helps to understand our need for beautiful spaces in our homes. Of course it is never perfect this side of Heaven but it can be good."

I find this time of year especially conducive to wanting those cozy, intimate spaces that offer our eyes... and hearts a bit of rest, comfort, and a time out. As the weather gets colder and days grow shorter heading to winter solstice, I find myself ready for wintering in place. I take the word wintering from the book title Wintering: The power of rest and retreat in difficult times by Katherine May. I just started reading it last night at the suggestion of an online friend. I went to order it and when I recognized the book cover, I realized I already had it in my 'to be read' pile in the cupboard. Out I pulled it and set it on my bedside table.

I am drawn in by these words, "Wintering brings about some of the most profound and insightful moments of our human experience, and wisdom resides in those who have wintered." I'm eager to learn what the author has to say. As anyone who knows me knows, I love reading books in season, and by season I mean the four seasons in nature (winter, spring, summer, autumn); the season of life (childhood, youth, adulthood, seniorhood); and the mental and emotional season in which our soul resides in any given time. Because of my online friend's comment, I felt nudged to read it now. It sounds like it could be 'in season' for me. I'll try to remember to let you know when I'm finished.

— five —

The following quotation by Albert Einstein came up on my Facebook memories page this morning. It's the second sentence that I continue to find luminous...and true.

"I have never looked upon ease and happiness as ends in themselves.  . . . The ideals that have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. Without the sense of kinship with men of like mind, without the occupation with the objective world, the eternally unattainable in the field of art and scientific endeavors, life would have seemed empty to me. The trite objects of human efforts—possessions, outward success, luxury—have always seemed to me contemptible."

ALBERT EINSTEIN, from his essay, The World As I See It

 

❦

That's my Five on Friday. On that note,

I'm wishing you a beautiful weekend,

Brenda

Photo Credits:

Top: Image by Lisa870 from Pixabay  

One: Image by Brenda @ It's A Beautiful Life

Two: Image by Karolina Grabowska from Pixabay

Three: Image from Jacquie Lawson website

Four: Image by Marcos Santos from Pixabay

Five: Image by Jill Wellington from Pixabay

Home Sweet House, Where Memory Begins, Part 1

"Home is where one starts from"

T.S. ELIOT

In this Home Sweet House series, I am looking back at the places I once called home, revisiting each one in my mind, ruminating how they shaped and sheltered my life. Today I look forward to sharing some of my story about the little farmhouse - the home where I started from. If you missed the intro post, you will find it HERE.

One spring day in the late 1950s, a little girl was born. She was as bald as a blonde billiard ball. "Look what the Easter Bunny brought," exclaimed the nurse to the tired, new mother. She was her parents' firstborn and was the delight of their lives… or so I'm told. That little girl was me. We lived on a farm in Alberta, one of the Canadian western prairie provinces, where my dad lived as a boy when his parents immigrated from Poland shortly before World War II. Some of my earliest memories, still rich and evocative, are rooted in the farmhouse where my mom came as a young bride, and where my siblings and I grew up. Looking back, it's the ambiance of that humble farmhouse—the one my mom turned into a warm and welcoming home for her family and all who visited—that I yearned to recreate in every dwelling I lived in when I left to make my own way in the world.

When I was little, the farmhouse seemed huge. It was my whole world. I still remember what it felt like to see things from a child's height, eyes barely skimming the countertop and being little enough to make a tent for me and my doll under the kitchen table without bumping my head too often. The house sat square to the world on a small hill. Walking into the northeast jutted-out porch, it was like a cloak room where we kept our coats and boots. It also housed the wood box for the wood stove in the kitchen, a basin for washing off the dirt, and a pail with fresh water from the outside well for drinking, a dipper hanging nearby. Our house was a simple two-story, rectangular building, nothing fancy, with five small rooms on the first floor and two large ones with slanted ceilings on the second. Crowded when company came, it felt perfect for the eventual six of us who'd call it home for years to come. Although I wouldn't have known how to describe it as a child, the smallness of the rooms made the house feel cozy and intimate. Especially so at Christmas with the tree lights on and the ceiling light off. I loved it.

It was cozy. And cozy became the standard for how I thought a place should feel and be. I sought that ambiance wherever I went.

By the time I came on the scene, our house had electricity. Old lanterns in the basement and attic remained as remnants of my dad’s childhood. The telephone, indoor plumbing, and natural gas for heating wouldn't arrive until I was older, nearing age ten, or so. The outdoor biffy was a nifty two-seater, and my little sister and I would synchronize our visits, not being keen on outhouse visits on our own, especially as it grew dark—one never knew if there’d be skunks waiting down the hole. It never dawned on our vivid imaginations that no self-respecting skunk would choose such a spot to hang around in. Same with imagining the coyotes in the basement beneath the stairs, scary creatures just waiting to nip sweet young ankles if we didn’t tear up those stairs as fast as we could without dropping whatever we'd been instructed to fetch from the pantry... slamming the basement door behind us, to Mom’s annoyance.

Every room in the house had tall windows that let in fresh air in summer and had storm windows fastened over them in winter to keep out the cold. The house was bright on sunny days. Morning sunshine streamed over cereal boxes and milk jugs. By noon it lit up the southeast situated living room where Mom's beautiful piano stood as a queen and where we’d watch, mesmerized, as dust mites danced on the sunbeams. Across the hall sat my south-facing bedroom, which I shared when my little sister came along three years after me. How we loved to play in that bright, snug room, jumping on the bed and stoutly denying those were not our fingerprints marking the walls near the ceiling. In late afternoon, sunshine streamed through west-facing windows in the stairwell and our parents' bedroom, now bathing the kitchen in warm evening light that fell by the stove where Mom cooked supper.

I loved looking out those windows in the wintertime to catch the sun's waning light skimming across frozen fields. In deep winter, layers of frost covered the windows. It was only after scratching frost off with a fingernail or melting tiny holes with our breath that we could peek outside. And when a snowstorm was blowing or the temperatures had fallen to -40 in both Fahrenheit and Celsius, a peek was all we were interested in, happy to turn back inside to play with our toys and warm our cold toes on heat registers.

I probably learned my directions from watching where the sun shone through which window. I knew high noon was in the south. I knew which way was north. No sunshine shone through that window, but I could probably spot the North Star from it at night. It was a lovely view in the summertime—trees filled the sky with lots of greenery and the fields felt alive with growing crops and hay. But on grey sunless autumn or wintry days, I never liked looking out from that window. The world felt stark and just a little scary with its bleakness. Fields lay empty. Bare branches bristled against sullen skies. And I didn't like those dull colours of grey and earthy stubbly brown (hues I have since come to appreciate). Besides, there were coyotes out there somewhere, with their eerie howls, which made for scary dreams of being locked out and no one to let me in. I never lingered at that window in winter, always eager to turn from it into warmth and safety. The kitchen was especially welcoming, the radio filling the air with talk host chatter interspersed by homey tunes like Little Green Apples.

The kitchen was the heart of our home. And the kitchen table was the hub for all that went on in our family. Where all things important and trivial took place…where we ate our meals, folded laundry, cleaned fruit and berries, sweated over homework, played games, did crafts. Where the Eaton's Christmas catalogue was studied, and bills were calculated. And where yummy things like plum kuchen, ginger cookies, and buns sat on cooling racks. Mom’s sewing machine often occupied one end where she transformed bolts of fabric into pretty dresses, blouses, jackets, new curtains as well as patching torn sleeves and ripped pants. It was also where Dad took off his big work boots and sat in his thick woolly socks, or Mom took a few minutes of rest peeling an orange while browsing the latest Reader's Digest.

I grew up in rural Alberta thinking everyone's family was the same as ours. And in many respects, they were. The families we knew were mostly of European roots, having immigrated at some point, settling in Western Canada. Farm families usually were large with four to six children, or more. Some families thrived; others survived. Thankfully, we always had more than sufficient of the necessities of life, with enough extras and treats to sweeten our days. My mom and dad would play with us when we were little, put nourishing meals on the table, lay loving hands over fevered foreheads and help us sip ginger ale for upset tummies. We had shoes that fit growing feet and lovely clothes for the new school year and at Christmas and Easter. New toys were usually saved for birthdays and Christmas, but occasionally a new book for eager young minds came out of the shopping bag from the trip into the big city. If there was one for me and one for my sister, it was a double bonus; we could trade when we finished our own.

We learned how to help our neighbours. We found out life is a mix of happy and sad, good health and illness, joyful surprises and horrid things that go bump in the night. We were simple folk; in our house conversations didn't revolve around the philosophies of life, or poetry, or the classics. But we learned about getting along with our siblings and that helping was part of what makes a home a happy place. We learned that life isn't always fair, despite our protests. And we soon had a handle on the wonderful old stories about Moses in the bulrushes, David and Goliath, and Baby Jesus being born in Bethlehem. We learned to say grace at the table. There were flowers in the garden mingling amongst the long rows of peas, potatoes, and carrots. Family photos and pretty ornaments were set about the place. And music spooled from the radio and record player, along with the added cacophony as young fingers practiced scales, hammered out Chopsticks, and learned to recognize pieces by Bach, Mozart, and Tchaikovsky, not to mention plunked out hymns and tunes like What A Friend We Have in Jesus and Jingle Bells.

Our home was a pragmatic place: daytime was for work, no time to be lazy or fooling around. Clothes needed washing, potatoes needed hilling, pantries needed stocking, children and livestock needed feeding, crops needed planting, hay needed baling, school needed attending, and homework needed finishing. As kids—there were four of us eventually—we each had our chores, but then the rest of the day, especially during summer holidays and weekends, was ours to do as we pleased. We had the whole farm at our disposal, and we often asked if we could walk to meet the kids on the next farm. Together, we'd explore every corner of our parents' quarter-sections. We'd play games, put on plays, and pick Saskatoon berries. Sundays after church, Mom would often invite a family for dinner, and sometimes we'd go on Sunday drives, occasionally stopping at neighbours for a short visit (we always hoped there'd be kids to play with at that house). Evenings after supper, when I was little, were for relaxing: Dad sitting in his easy chair reading or listening to Mom play the piano. In summer we'd played outside until it got dark, and on dark winter evenings we played games and read storybooks and put puzzles together. When we finally got a television at our house in the early 1970s, well, that changed all manner of patterns, for we then gathered in the living room to watch the latest episode of The Waltons, Mary Tyler Moore, Marcus Welby, or Gunsmoke.

With our farm situated just off the main highway, friends and neighbours would often stop in on their way home from shopping in town. And one day when Helen, a good family friend, stopped in, and Mom wasn't home, I knew just how to step into being hostess. Inviting her in, I put the kettle on for coffee (usually Nescafe or Maxwell House), set out the mugs, cream and sugar. Tea was never offered where we grew up; it was always coffee. A quick rustling in the freezer for cookies which thawed quickly. Or maybe there was a fresh rhubarb cake on the counter. That day, the pair of us sat at the table, sipping our coffee, and chatting. I will never forget it. I was probably 11 or 12, already eagerly leaning towards my teens and young adulthood. I felt grown up, maybe the way Anne of Green Gables felt when she prepared afternoon tea for her chum, Diana Berry. Only I didn't make anyone tipsy - no elderberry wine anywhere in Mom's cupboards.

I loved setting a table for company, and to this day, it remains my favourite aspect of preparing for guests. With Mom busy making the meal, she'd ask me to set the table. I’d select one of her pretty tablecloths she got as a wedding present. And then carefully bring out the Old Country Roses Royal Albert dishes she'd collected over the years. I'd remember a page in a magazine on how to creatively fold dinner napkins. Experimenting was great fun. Days before the big event, I'd watch my mom at the kitchen table poring over recipe books as she decided on the menu. The entrée—although we’d never heard of the word until years later—we simply referred to it as the main dish which was always a meat dish: chicken, beef, pork, or turkey. Then there were the side dishes of vegetables like peas, cabbage rolls, and salads, including the green garden salad and the jellied salad popular at the time. Homemade buns and pickles. Not forgetting the all-important decision of which desserts to make. Would it be lemon meringue pie, angel food cake, or the pineapple layer dream dessert? The latter was probably my favourite. I marveled at how Mom was able to orchestrate her meal so that every dish arrived hot and done on the table at the same time.

Mom was the sunshine of our world. Coming home from school, she’d be waiting for us, welcoming us with questions about our day and something yummy for a snack. The house always felt sad and empty when she happened to be away when we got home from school. There were occasions when her cheerfulness would dim, and I felt its loss keenly although I couldn’t have said so at the time. Life was hard for her sometimes, often struggling with her own illness of severe asthma and allergies, trying to raise four kids, help her husband on the farm, and keep the household running. On days when there was tension in the home—every family has its imperfect human dynamics—those days I’d disappear into my storybooks. Always hoping that whatever was going on would clear up and our sweet and cozy home life would resume.

As a girl, I watched my mom taking care of us, of our home, and I knew that’s what I wanted to do when I grew up. I tucked these things in my heart and pondered them until the day I would be the chatelaine of my own home.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .

❦

Wishing you a beautiful weekend,

Brenda

Photo Credit:

Top - Vincent Van Gogh Image from Pixabay

Fond Farewells Before the Frost

" Autumn shows us how

beautiful it is to let things go."

UNKNOWN

Sunday Morning and the sun is shining slant against steel grey clouds in the northwest. The weather station has been predicting frost for weeks now, but the warm days that felt like late summer kept it at bay. Until last night. The summer garden has at last succumbed to autumn's call to rest. The past few days I've been doing the rounds to say my goodbyes and thank you's. It's been a spectacular year for the garden.

Here is a quick peek at what was still bright with colour a day ago.

"October, baptize me with leaves!

Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me

with split pea soup.

October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and

carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins.

O autumn! O teakettle! O grace!"

Alas, I saw this attributed to two different authors:

DONNA TARTT, "The Secret History"

and to RAINBOW ROWELL

Penquin Random House says it belongs to Rainbow Rowell

I'll be back next week, hopefully this time with the next episode in the Homes series. I thought it would be easy to write about my childhood home—my memories are still so vivid—but deep thinking about one's memories often takes time and much pondering to sort out what a person wants to actually record about these cherished remembrances. And so I'm still working away on this project.

As we begin the last full week of October, I'm hoping it will be bright and beautiful for you.

❦ 

Warmest heart hugs,

Brenda

Photos are mine

Saturday: Sayings that Resonated This Week

"Come along inside . . . we'll see if

tea and buns can make the world a better place."

KENNETH GRAHAM, The Wind in the Willows

Happy Saturday! As I mentioned to a friend in an email, we've had another week of gorgeous weather. We had a near perfect summer and come September, and now October, it eased so gracefully into Autumn, I hardly felt the bump of seasonal change. I'm still wearing my summer sandals, if you can believe it. Many trees now stand bare while others hold their autumn coats a few more days. To my joy, winds have crisp leaves dancing down the streets. The Peace Rose has several buds on the verge of bursting open; alyssums and the tall purple salvia bloom as if still in deep summer. And most unexpectedly, one hydrangea which struggled all summer to grow up, blazed forth a single hot pink bloom this week. What a delightful surprise!

So our yard continues to create a happy place for us and the few insects still passing through. Many migrating birds have flown south, which means the year-round locals start circling back to us, our yard a part of their wintering feeding area. We hear the chickadees and finches again, and the blue jays call every morning for their share-out of peanuts.

Now, I have been working away on the next installment of My Homes series; alas, it's not ready for today. So, instead I share a few quotes that have been meaningful to me over the last few days. Hope something resonates as you read.

—— ❦ ——

One

"Often God's voice

comes in a whisper,

in a breath of silence.

Remaining in silence in

God's presence, open to

the Spirit, is already prayer.

Allow Christ to pray within you silently—

One day you will discover

that the depths of your being

is inhabited by a presence."

BODMIN HERMIT, as seen on Twitter

—— ❦ ——

Two

"Be as gentle as you can, to everyone you

brush shoulders with, with yourself.

It seems to me that lately everyone is walking

wounded, worried, weary. Make room, be patient, speak softly.

Carry mercy in your body like a necessary salve,

for the world is aching."

JOY MARIE CLARK, as seen on Twitter

—— ❦ ——

Three

"The purpose of art is not the release of

a momentary injection of adrenaline,

but a gradual lifelong construction of a

state of wonder and serenity."

GLENN GOULD

—— ❦ ——

Four

"The best moments in reading are when you come across

something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—

which you had thought special and particular to you.

Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have

never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand

has come out and taken yours."

ALAN BENNETT

—— ❦ ——

Five

On creative work...

"Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me.

All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste.

But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good.

It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not.

But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer.

And your taste is why your work disappoints you.

A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit."

IRA GLASS, as seen on Twitter

—— ❦ ——

Six

"Loneliness does not come from having no people around you,

but from being unable to communicate the things

that seem important to you."

CARL JUNG

—— ❦ ——

Finally

These words I penned in my journal to remind myself:

"I can be a light in someone's darkness;

I can be a patch of blue sky in someone's grey day;

I can be the pink surprise of one hydrangea bloom on an October morning;

I can be present to my world today."

BL

❦

Wishing you a beautiful weekend,

Brenda

Photo Credits:

(Top) Chulmin Park from Pixabay

(Bottom) Rebekka D from Pixabay