Making Birdhouses

Every year I go visit my Mother and Step-Father in Virginia with my daughter in tow.  I feel like it’s such a great place for her to learn to run barefoot, be handy, and be a little wild.  I loved the country growing up – and I’m hopeful she will feel the same.

But this story in particular is about my Step-Father, who is many great things, but he’s one of the best carpenters I know (I wish he lived closer, I need his help on some projects).  When I was a kid, my own father used to build furniture, so I was constantly rolling around in the sawdust under his saw (probably not the safest in hindsight) and to this day I love the smell of cut wood.  It takes me right back to my father.  He passed away a couple of years ago, so I don’t get to see his face any longer.  Which makes these photographs that much more important to me.

These are of my daughter and her Grandpa in Virginia.  Where she got to help him put together a birdhouse and the smell of the cut wood for me, plus the pictures I was capturing, just made a beautiful place in my heart.  She finished it off by painting with Grammy – who I know misses her very much.



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