You don't get to pick your parents but I couldn't have done better if I had tried. I needlepointed Dad a piece once that says, " A father is someone you look up to no matter how tall you grow". Thankfully that is very true in my family!
We had a nice lunch today at my house and, as you see, dessert stole the show. Wish you'd been here to join us!
Today I went in several gift shops and noticed that everything was made in China. I know things are still made in America and I think they're worth saving. Here's a website that will help me and those like me to find what we want. I hope you will work on this with me!
Today was the anniversary of Dad's cousin and his wife - celebrated at Chattahoochee First Baptist in Atlanta. I enjoyed wandering the grounds and through the church while Mom and Dad visited with family they seldom see. The church is Dad's home church where he and Mom were married (in the white building, the Pastorium, beside the church) and where both Mom and Dad were baptised. It's a beautiful church and we all had a great day. At the end of the video you see Dad's elementary school and the house he grew up in. Pretty cool, huh?
A couple of my favorite shots are the mossy brick path to the church and the cornerstone on the front right of the sanctuary building. And, of course, the stained glass is remarkable!
Our England is a garden that is full of stately views, Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues, With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by; But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall, You will find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all ; The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks: The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise; For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds, The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose, And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows; But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam, For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made By singing:--"Oh, how beautiful!" and sitting in the shade, While better men than we go out and start their working lives At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick. But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done, For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders, If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders; And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden, You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees, So when your work is finished, you can wash your hand and pray For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away! And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!
