We had a Japanese Maple at the Grand that I loved to photograph. I never had thought of myself as having a favorite tree, but of course that was my favorite.

We bought our new house in January, and we had no idea what kind of landscaping we would find, since we do not know trees well enough to know them by their trunks and not their leaves (and sometimes not even then). I drove by the new house obsessively that spring between the time we bought it and the time we moved in. I was giddy when the leaves began to come out and I realized that the tree by the front door was none other than a Japanese Maple.

Rebecca let me know about a challenge for the month of August–one image a day, no kids, no flowers. Simon was not too happy about it until I assured him I’d still take plenty of pictures of the kids.

So it’s day 1 (day 3, but day 1 for me), and I’ve already resorted to portraits of Simon’s fish. This should be an interesting (and difficult) challenge, and I’m looking forward to it.

(So lately I’ve done a few photoshoots, but I also realize how neglectful I’ve been about posting photos for the last year or so. Over the next few weeks, I’ll remedy that situation. Stay tuned.)

Last fall we headed over to Holmes Lake with our dear friends the Chois for a hasty photoshoot. By “we,” I mean I had my kids in tow. By “dear friends” I mean the Chois as a family and as individuals are some of my very favorites in this life. And by “hasty,” I mean after school and (as previously mentioned) without childcare options for my kids, so we had to hustle a bit to avoid meltdown all around.

Normally, I like to post several of my favorite photos, and I guess that’s still true this time. It’s just that my favorites from this shoot include almost as many outtakes as “real” shots (too bright! so many kids! Clara wants to hold the baby).

My very earliest memory is of my Grandma Carlson. I must have been three or four–about Clara’s age now–and we must have been having some kind of summer party and I must have fallen and scraped my knee and someone (quite possibly Grandma herself) must have carried me inside because the first thing I can remember in this life is my grandma setting me on top of the washing machine (it was gold) and using hydrogen peroxide to clean up my bloody knee and then putting a bandaid on.  It’s not even an actual story as much as a feeling, a knowing.

I am incredibly thankful that I have so much more than just that first, now-faded impression of my dear grandma. In fact, I have close to forty years of memories and the understanding that I was deeply loved by her before I can remember loving her back. I have a lifetime of being prayed for and delighted in and cheered on. (I am especially thankful that my kids have gotten to be loved by her as well. What lucky ducks. The kids, and then all of us, call her Wise Nana, which I’m pretty sure is the best, most appropriate name ever.)

My grandma died last Saturday. I hate that sentence just about as much as anything I’ve ever written down. And yet I wouldn’t wish her back even for a moment. She is in glory with her savior, receiving her rest and her reward, and as for us, we do not grieve as others who do not have hope (1 Thess. 4:13).

Still, I miss her. So much.

I suppose it’s appropriate that my first memory of my grandma is mostly a sense of her presence. Especially in the last couple of years, I had noticed how quiet my grandma was–unassuming, never demanding attention. A quiet and gentle spirit if ever there was one. And I think what I’ll remember most is simply her presence. She was one who showed up–to bring a meal to my grandpa in the field, to play endless games of Candy Land, to make a Thanksgiving feast, to look at my pictures, to tie a quilt, to pray, to write a note, to call me on the phone. This is not to say that I don’t have any specific memories of things she’s said or what made her (or me) laugh or what kinds of things we’ve done together and places we’ve gone or things she’s taught me; I do have lots of those. But really, what I’ll never get over is the sense of simply being with my grandma. What a blessing that has been for all my life so far, and what a deep loss I feel without her here.

Last week we took advantage of the too-cool-to-swim Lincoln temperatures (and free admission on Tuesdays) to venture out to one of our favorite places, the Spring Creek Prairie Audubon Center. We brought a picnic and then spent an hour and a half or so exploring a tiny bit of the 850 acres of tall grass prairie.

In the visitors’ center are lots of hands-on activities (think magnifying glasses and microscopes and lots of natural treasures to investigate). And one of our favorite things to do is check out a backpack full of guides and tools and suggested activities to help us explore the trails outside. So far we’ve tried the entymologist pack and the ornithologist pack, but they also have a writer’s pack, a photographer’s pack, a burrowing animal’s pack, and maybe one or two more. One of these days, I think it would be fun to have just one kid and really dig in, but even with three kids with varying attention spans and interest levels, it has been really good to have a little guidance. I think we have noticed more of everything when we are specifically on the lookout for something. For example, one of the suggested activities was to collect a fingernail-size sample of plants (or feathers or whatnot, I suppose) for as many colors of the rainbow as you could find. Looking closely slowed us down and ensured we didn’t just breeze past–as I write that, I think perhaps it’s too obvious.  I love to see what observations the kids make. I think I’ve said before that I can never get enough of seeing the world through their eyes.

One of the things I love about the activity backpacks–and that I wish I would remember in our daily lives but seem to need a reminder of each time we visit the Prairie–is the suggestion to start each walk/hike/exploration with a quiet minute: find a comfortable place to sit (or lay), close your eyes, and listen/feel/smell for a full minute. On this last trip, we needed more than one quiet minute because everyone was getting testy. That reset was exactly what was needed to redirect, and it saved the day.

So there’s lots to keep you busy, but really the main thing is that the Prairie is simply beautiful. Like really, really, no-place-like-Nebraska beautiful.

A couple of downsides: if you go on a day that is hot (and we did last summer), well, it’s really, really hot. Not being a lover of hot–let’s be real, I’m a hater of hot–I would recommend choosing a cool day (spring or fall or unseasonably cool summer) at least for your first visit. That way you can fall in love with the place and be more forgiving when you come back on a day when the only way to survive is to pretend you’re a pioneer. And also, ticks. Despite our best intentions to leave the living creatures as we found them, no fewer than eight hitched a ride home with us this time.

If you go, Spring Creek Prairie is open seven days a week throughout the year except on major holidays (New Year’s Day, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, and Christmas). The visitor center is open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday, and 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. on Saturday and Sunday. Trails are open sunrise to sunset. Admission is $4 for adults and $3 for kids 6–17. Tuesdays are FREE.

We heard about the Prairie from our friends the Steiners, and we joined them for our first visit last year–we immediately knew our first visit wouldn’t be our last. So here are a few more shots from a couple of different visits last year that never got posted.

A week or so ago, I got a text from my friend Jen: “Cherries ripe for little cherry pickers!” We headed out that very morning and picked what ended up being about six cups of pitted cherries. Maybe that doesn’t sound like so much, but believe me, that’s a lot of cherries for little hands to pick. And if anyone asks me to pit cherries before next year, it’ll be too soon.

(We also left approximately one million cherries on the two beautiful trees the Hinrichs have in their backyard. Every time we thought we had gathered all we could reach on a branch, we looked up to find a nearly equal amount!)

So the kids have different capacities for cherry  picking. Simon was the least interested (by far), and Ian stuck it out the longest. At one point, Ian was nearing meltdown because he couldn’t reach any more cherries. Jen came to the rescue with the brilliant idea of using the mini-trampoline. I don’t know if it actually helped him reach any more cherries (the flying leap was not super effective as a technique), but it sure did do the trick for redirecting his energy and staving off a tantrum.

So far we’ve made Cherry Hand Pies and Cherry Crumb Bars (just substituted cherries for blueberries). Next up, I’ll make a batch (or two) of Cherry Barbecue Sauce.

And here’s a little blog bonus for a rainy Monday afternoon: I realized that I never did post last year’s cherry pictures. Last year we made a pie with my grandma: best ever. The recipe itself was unremarkable, but the memories of our first cherry picking experience and my ninety-one-year-old grandma rolling out dough with my kids are precious.