Spring has begun to show itself on the west coast. For almost a month I've been adoring daffodils and crocuses. Last week I began to notice tuffs of green budding out from the trees. The whole city is covered in hues of pink cherry blossoms.
It's spectacular.
One almost forgets that the rest of the country is still under snow. Yesterday I called to chat with my mom and she is still shovelling the walk and fighting the cold. Ick.
It did however prompt me to take a look at the shots I took during Christmas, which I had nearly forgotten about. Here are a few to offer a farewell to the winter-scape and welcome spring.
It's interesting to me, whenever I return to my hometown I find myself documenting familiar places, the landmarks that are most known to me.
I love the roads that lead to town; and those that leave it.
It's spectacular.
One almost forgets that the rest of the country is still under snow. Yesterday I called to chat with my mom and she is still shovelling the walk and fighting the cold. Ick.
It did however prompt me to take a look at the shots I took during Christmas, which I had nearly forgotten about. Here are a few to offer a farewell to the winter-scape and welcome spring.
It's interesting to me, whenever I return to my hometown I find myself documenting familiar places, the landmarks that are most known to me.
I love the roads that lead to town; and those that leave it.
I love the grain elevator; the sky-scraper of the prairie, proudly bearing our name.
I love the abandoned houses that developed stories as we walked by them as kids after school. And sometimes wandered into...
And Andy's. The café my grandparents would take me to as a kid. My grandpa would tell me how the prices had changed just slightly on the menu board over the years, but everything else was the same. I imagined him and my grandma eating here, looking young, as they did in the wedding photo that hung on our living room wall, sitting on the same chairs wrapped in orange vinyl, the ones that were now cracked and split from age.
And Andy's. The café my grandparents would take me to as a kid. My grandpa would tell me how the prices had changed just slightly on the menu board over the years, but everything else was the same. I imagined him and my grandma eating here, looking young, as they did in the wedding photo that hung on our living room wall, sitting on the same chairs wrapped in orange vinyl, the ones that were now cracked and split from age.
I love passing the Cosmo. The local drinking hole. Coffee shop, restaurant, bar.
And I love this grain shed, the house my grandfather and his 11 siblings lived in when settling on the prairie. My sister and I always come here. We talk about how small our parent's house seemed for just the four of us at times; we try to imagine a time when these walls held 13 lives. We think of our grandfather, here, as little boy, certain he was equally mischievous and every bit as loveable.
Now it holds grain.
And stories.
And I love this grain shed, the house my grandfather and his 11 siblings lived in when settling on the prairie. My sister and I always come here. We talk about how small our parent's house seemed for just the four of us at times; we try to imagine a time when these walls held 13 lives. We think of our grandfather, here, as little boy, certain he was equally mischievous and every bit as loveable.
Now it holds grain.
And stories.
When I return now there are polished new buildings and developments, but these are the parts I love best.
The well worn.
The known.
See you in summer, snowy town.
Without the snow, of course.