Walking in Westview - At Peace with History

Getting interested in one’s family tree could be called a hobby, I guess. For some folks it becomes a life’s work. Those who have been at it for years have developed not just the raw information, but also instinctive approaches to identifying their ancestors. Mike’s cousin, Judy, is a pro, passionate about the pursuit of this particular knowledge and clearly enjoying the adventure.

I am a novice, but already hooked. Reaching into the past, exploring the lives of those who came before. Having begun with the online marvels of Ancestry.com, I’ve moved on to shamelessly query family members, digging names and places out of their memories. I’ve studied the family Bibles and photographs and wished a thousand times that I had paid more attention to my parents’ stories and asked more questions when they were alive.

Raymond Artope's Marker

All this led me to a sunny February afternoon wandering through Westview Cemetery in Southwest Atlanta, a place I haven’t been since the early 1960s when we buried my mother’s mother there. Westview is a huge burial site, complete with an ornate Gothic mausoleum called Westview Abbey. My maternal grandparents are buried on a sloping section almost in the shadow of the three-story Abbey, itself home to a multitude of crypts, according to cemetery information. About 100,000 folks rest in these grounds.

Mike with his camera and I with my notepad entered the rolling grounds that cover about 600 acres through the stone gate flanked by a gatehouse in the same aged stone, rough Georgia granite, cut in blocks of varied sizes. The gatehouse’s Romanesque tower is said to be one of the oldest standing structures in Atlanta. Within a few yards of the entry, Mike spotted a beautiful huge tree (photo above), spreading its magnificent limbs above the grounds.

Our first stop was in the office just inside the gate where a helpful lady looked up the locations of the Artopes and other relatives buried there and with a few clicks on her computer gave us their plot numbers and a map. She thoughtfully starred the maps for us and gave us very specific instructions about how to find first one section then another.

I had some sense of the history of Westview from both family teaching and from Google. Opened in 1884, its early history included a “receiving vault” where coffins were placed in the winter months when the unpaved roads sometimes became mired in icy mud. It would hold only 36 coffins, a reminder that Atlanta in 1884 was much less populated than the sprawling metropolis it has become. Now sealed, the vault’s inscription tells its history.

That story includes the vault’s use for a different reason in 1917-1918 when the influenza epidemic was killing Atlantans at a rapid rate. There is other rich history here, too. As quiet as it was on the day we drove and walked its hallowed ground, it was noisy and filled with both life and death in July, 1864, when the Battle of Ezra Church was fought here. Confederate troops attempted to stop William Tecumseh Sherman’s army here from its “March to the Sea,” but were outmatched. A monument amidst the graves commemorates that battle.

In between visits to the gravesites of our relatives, we found ourselves awed by the burial sites of famous Atlantans like the journalist, Henry W. Grady, for whom the University of Georgia’s School of Journalism is named, and the city’s longtime mayor, Ivan Allen, Jr. There are vaults and memorials in myriad designs and sizes, sometimes appearing to be competing for the beholder’s attention. I couldn’t help but imagine that a competitive spirit might have spurred some families to make a better showing, even in death, than their peers.

There are a number of family “vaults” in Westview. These are small buildings that encompass crypt spaces. One that caught our attention was still decorated for the holidays, including solar-powered lights leading to the door. Through the glass in the door we could see a chair, a table and Valentine decorations. These are  indications of love and grief, loss and a sense of how those left behind cope, telling stories that strangers might not understand, but reminding us that families need to express their feelings in their own ways.

Abbey Facade

Sitting above them all is the Abbey, a remarkable edifice that, for all its immensity, creates a peaceful, however elaborately decorated, respite for those who rest there. When I asked whether there are photographs of the interior, I was told they were not available in the office. A simple typed page of the cemetery’s history was made available with its paragraph extolling the wonders that exist inside the Abbey’s walls. Mike’s photographs of the façade with its tiled mosaics only hint at what might be behind those closed doors. Running out of time, we didn’t attempt to go inside, but there are photographs online.

Abbey Mosaic

Building of the “community Mausoleum” began in 1943, says the brochure. It was planned to “challenge the finest the masters of the past ever built.” It is reported to be the largest structure of its kind ever built under one roof, said to have space for 11,244 entombments. It includes 27 stained glass panels depicting the life of Christ, among paintings and other artworks representing religious texts. A man-made lake once lay below the Abbey to the south, but it was drained in the 1980s.

 

 Our time in Westview answered some of my questions about specific birth and death dates for our family members. The time spent there also was a walk through Atlanta’s history, from the devastation of the Civil War through the late 19th and early 20th century’s “simpler times” to the present. Many famous citizens are buried here, alongside those less well-known, but remembered on markers and stones, small and large. On the day we were there, cemetery workers were preparing sites for those to be buried in the days to come. Only about half of the available land has been developed and there are yet thousands of spaces available in the developed sections.

Even on the chilly winter day we walked in Westview, when its trees were bare of leaves and its grassy hills and valleys were the dull color of a harsher winter than this Southern city usually knows, it was a haven removed from Atlanta’s bustle and rush. It remains a peaceful place, Westview, true to the premise of its original charter -- “a landscape park in which may safely rest the dead.”

All photos by Mike Lumpkin

Who Knew I'd Find a Sheriff on the Family Tree?

After years of thinking about it, I’ve finally started digging into family history, searching through old records, connecting the dots back from me to whomever I find somewhere back there. And, having started, I’m finding it hard to stop.

It’s like working a puzzle, trying to determine how to take bits of information that you’ve retained from family conversations, the names of relatives met briefly—and maybe only once--at weddings and funerals, and attach them to the family tree. But when you suddenly come upon a census record from the early 20th century that has a name you remember or a parent described as the 2-year-old child of your grandparents, there’s a thrill that runs up your spine. That’s my Daddy, that child whom I knew only as a grown man.

My Mother's Mother, Susie

My spine tingles at least once during each session I spend on Ancestry.com. I’ve found newspaper articles that mention “Mrs. George Artope.” She was returning to Cedartown after a visit with her sister, Mrs. Johnnie Bagwell (whom we knew as Aunt Lula Bagwell), in Atlanta. Now I’m feeling some confusion about this tidbit because Mrs. George Artope was my great-grandmother and Lula Artope Bagwell was her daughter. Maybe the newspaper got it wrong and it was my grandmother, Mrs.Raymond Artope, who was going back to Cedartown. Confusion about which Artope woman was meant, to find any female ancestor in an old newspaper gave me a charge.

By the way, these were not folks of high society by any means. But their visit was mentioned in the 1921 Atlanta Constitution just the same. It was a simpler time. That was long before Facebook was either possible technologically or conceivable intellectually. In those days, it seems, regular folks’ comings and goings in Georgia made the newspaper. The Atlanta paper included our family name in the “East Point News,” East Point being a suburb of Atlanta before being swallowed up by the sprawling city Atlanta became. [I’m struck by the dichotomy of my own mother saying to me in the late 1990s when my name appeared in the Dayton Daily News because of some TV scheduling issue: “In my day, nice women didn’t get their names in the paper, Lee.” Hmmph, Mama, I wish I’d known about Granny (or Great-Grandma) getting her name in the Constitution when you chastised me!

And then, there’s the sheriff. Yes, according to 1880 census records, my great-grandfather on Daddy’s side was a county sheriff at age 31. I’d always known that my father’s mother’s family was well-known in their South Georgia county. There’s even a crossroads there named for them. But, despite the fact that I knew Daddy’s grandfather had married three times (two of the wives were sisters) and sired ten children, I had never heard (or didn’t remember) that he had been the sheriff. By the time the 1900 census was taken, his occupation was listed as “farmer.”

My Mother's Father (right)

And there are the carpenters. I knew my mother’s father was a carpenter. He shared his love of woodworking with us when we were kids, taking us to his basement workshop and making little stools for us to sit on at a safe distance from his sawing and hammering. He made pieces of furniture for us that we still cherish.

What I didn’t know was that I would find carpenters back along the bloodline before him. In the 1880 census records from South Carolina, I found yet another carpenter in the family, this one my mother’s great-grandfather. There’s something in the genes, perhaps, although I’m sad to say that particular part of the genetic code didn’t make it to my generation.

What set me on this course of searching the family tree was sheer curiosity. I have no need to discover that I’m related to anyone famous or rich or royal. What is fascinating me as I explore each new limb on the tree is simply the idea that I’m touching the lives of those who have gone before me. Their experience of life is outlined in the records available, sometimes clearly and other times with more obscure references that leave me wondering and imagining how they lived.

I find myself wishing I had listened more attentively to my parents’ stories about family members. I wish I had asked more questions of parents and grandparents when they were alive. Unfortunately, even the curious among us don’t exhibit enough curiosity in childhood about the “old people.” I missed many chances at weddings and funerals and family reunions. Now I must rely on small snippets of memory to guide my way through the records so that I don’t follow the wrong trail. And I’ve already found that others who are researching available information are willing to share.

I actually have a fairly significant stack of old pictures, some of them tintypes, that were left in my care.  Unfortunately, even my mother didn't know who some of the people in the pictures were or why they had come into our keeping.  I find myself wanting to know their names and why their photographs are in my hands.

So I have begun my quest to know better those who came before me and to attempt to learn what I can about their lives. I imagine my father’s spirit somewhere out there, chuckling that his offspring finally has a deeper appreciation of history.

You were right again, Daddy. It is interesting to learn about the way we were and you were also right that I should have paid more attention to what you tried to tell me. I’m hooked now and determined to document what I learn for those who come after me. And, as you said, it’s fun, too.

Sounds and Sights of Southwest Florida

Osprey with lunch

It’s beautiful this Tuesday in Southwest Florida. Some might complain that it’s cloudy rather than sunny, but I’m not one of those people. Instead, I am grateful to be enjoying the call of an osprey from its nest atop a palm tree in my sister’s front yard. I can hear, too, the sound of the little fountain in her pool on the lanai, the occasional rattle of palm fronds in the breeze.

Somewhere north of here friends and family are living with one of those unusual snow and ice storms that come farther south than Nature intended. For Southerners, it’s more fun than not, an opportunity to watch the snow fall, or maybe find something on which to slide down a hill. For those less excited by these conditions, it’s a challenge to clear sidewalks and driveways, find one’s way to work, if necessary, knowing that most of us born in the South don’t drive well in snow and no one really drives well on ice.

But I’m not there today. Instead, I’m basking in 70+ degree temperatures on a little island off the Gulf Coast of Florida. Ft. Myers Beach is a haven for those who choose to escape from winter, whether in Ohio or Hamburg or Middlesex. As we take our morning walks, we say our “mornin” greetings, usually reciprocated with a crisp “morning,” the “g” intact, as pronounced by those raised in the Northern U.S. or Canada. Then there are the distinctly accented responses, those that clearly reflect a homeland across the ocean. This is a popular destination for Brits and Germans.

We take long walks before breakfast, taking pleasure in the soft sea air. This morning there was thick fog across the landscape, limiting visibility beyond a couple of hundred yards. That was tolerable because within our view were so many sights to enjoy.

People-watching is a constant delight here. Those who live here year-round bundle up when the temperature drops below 60 degrees while the visitors are wearing bikinis. Fashion tragedies occur minute-to-minute as every imaginable combination of tank tops, flip-flops, sequins and orthopedic shoes appear. Then there are the midriff-barers who should be arrested for crimes against nature. It’s truly amazing how we human beings choose to attire ourselves.

There was a flock of ibises using their long curved beaks to explore a neighbor’s yard. They were snapping up something that must have been tasty because they weren’t the least bit distracted by our passing close by along the street.

There were all sorts of trees and shrubs we don’t see in North Carolina, some blooming gloriously with huge red or peach-colored flowers. We who are not accustomed to palm trees marvel at the many different varieties of palms, both trees and shrubs.

Then there are the homes themselves. This is an area of canals, so most homes have boats behind them, many with pools covered with the huge “cages” or screens to keep out the summertime bug population. The houses come in a variety of colors with many approaches to the “Florida” look.

There are mailboxes made to look like manatees or dolphins. There are mailbox posts that look like the pilings that hold up docks. There are houses decorated with birds or seahorses or suns.

There are tile roofs and lawns of rocks interspersed with grass lawns that are perfectly manicured. There’s the house down the block that has been abandoned for a couple of years, sitting derelict among well-tended homes, its curtains hanging forlornly, eaves sagging, landscaping unkempt.

And everywhere, all around us and usually in eyesight, there is the water. The water in the bay is an aquamarine color that shimmers under the sun. The ocean water is a darker blue until it reaches the shallows along the gleaming white beaches where it becomes a pale blue-green. Sometimes the canals and creeks and sloughs have water in them that is so dark it appears almost black because you can see through it to the black earth beneath.

This, then, is a visual smorgasbord of land and sea, people and places. As my friend Anne says, it’s a place meant for “nothing to do and all day to do it.” Even as we explore and discover the natural and man-made beauties, we do it on Florida time—no hustle, no bustle, just living life as we come to it.

All photos by Mike Lumpkin

Tis the Season for Family, Friends, Fun and Feasting

Here we are in one of my favorite times of year, the amazing mix of crazy and calm, frantic and reflective that I associate with the final two weeks of the year. Asked today by a young friend in China (with whom I email regularly) about how we celebrate Christmas, I had these thoughts: family, fun and feasting. One of her professors had started her thinking about it when they spent some class time on the way Americans view the holiday.

Once the Thanksgiving holiday is past, the momentum picks up. We try each year to buy things we think will make good gifts when we see them. There’s a closet into which these items go, awaiting birthdays and Christmas. The good news is that we find things that someone might really like and we get “ahead” this way; the bad news is that we often forget that we’ve already bought a present for someone, so we buy another. And, of course, as the season ramps up, the urge to buy ramps up, too.

Even when I’m fighting traffic at the mall, I’m thinking about family and friends for whom I’m finding gifts. As I’m vying for a parking spot with two or three other agitated drivers, I’m thinking that there must be one special thing or one more thing that will make this Christmas really special for someone we love. There must be something on sale that is really great, better than whatever I bought two months ago that was good, but maybe doesn’t seem so special now.

It’s the time of year, too, for the holiday letter. This is when we can catch up on our friends’ lives and tell them what’s happening with us. For our Facebook friends, it’s probably redundant, but others get our year in a page of highlights. It’s become a creative outlet for me and a way to show off some of Mike’s great photographs. My challenge every year is to try to remember how Microsoft Word works so that I can put words and pictures together. Our theory is that some will read and enjoy, some will be too busy to read it, but might look at the pictures and others will simply sigh and say this is what retired people do because they have too much time on their hands.

Now we’re getting down to the short strokes. Christmas is only a couple of days away and we’re ready to travel, the car is stuffed with the packages we’ve wrapped and the few clothes that we still have room to take. We’ll spend the next week driving from place to place, hugging and laughing and trading gifts, both precious and silly. And we’ll eat. Then we’ll eat some more.

There will be meals, of course, with the bounty of the holidays on each table. Meats and side dishes will be followed by cakes and pies. In between meals, there will be cookies galore and dishes of candy and nuts. Egg nog and mimosas will surely add to our caloric intake and I can’t pass through Nashville without indulging in the boiled custard that appears on store shelves there this time of year. Our “yums” will be followed by “ughs”, perhaps accompanied by a polite belch and, finally, “zzzzzs.” There will be a nap or two, undoubtedly, and, weather permitting, a walk to help digest the volume of refreshment that passes through our lips.

One final thought about my young friend’s query is ambrosia. When I was a kid, my mother always made ambrosia, a kind of fruit soup made from orange sections, crushed pineapple and coconut. We ate it as dessert or breakfast or a snack from a big bowl that she kept in the refrigerator.

As my life has unfolded and various folks have influenced the mixture of ingredients, I’ve added cherries and miniature marshmallows and deleted the coconut. These changes haven’t diminished in any way the dish’s diverse attractions. If we’re too sated to eat it after one of these filling holiday meals, we just attack it late at night or eat it for breakfast. I still use a spoon to scoop out the oranges, section by section, rather than cut up the orange or resort to canned mandarin oranges, already sliced. Mama always said having your hands in the process added to the sweetness of the result.

For me, the natural sweetness of ambrosia (no sugar need be added) with its mixture of flavors -- the acidic pungency of the orange and the exotic tang of the pineapple, the sweetness of the cherries and marshmallows – represent perfectly this time of year. There’s a certain amount of work involved in getting ready, an almost hour-to-hour variation in pace from frantic shopping, wrapping and decorating to the serenity of listening to our favorite Christmas music and reminiscing. Then there’s the finale: the opening of presents and the sharing of joys both hoped for and unexpected.

With any luck, we’ll all experience the wish expressed by Clement Moore in his famous poem, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”

Photos by Mike Lumpkin

Remembering Dorothy Ann Moon Pettes

 I have been lucky in life, not least in the remarkable women I have known. These women have shared their strength and experience with me, mentored me and offered me their friendship, their warmth and their wisdom. They have, one and all, inspired me with a variety of ideals to be both admired and emulated.

Dorothy Pettes

One such woman died a few days ago in Atlanta. She left this earth richer for her time here and us poorer for her loss. Her legacy extends well beyond the children she raised and the friends she made. Her life achieved a goal many seek and fewer realize—she made a difference. Her integrity alone was a positive influence in the lives of many.

Young Dorothy

Dorothy Pettes was less than a month shy of her 99th birthday when she left this life. Born Dorothy Ann Moon in St. Louis in 1912, she had earned a nursing degree and worked as a visiting nurse and college nurse before her marriage to Tom Pettes. Once married, she became a wife and mother and, in my view, a true domestic engineer and the mother of four children.

I met Mrs. Pettes when invited to her home by her daughter, Sara, a high-school friend. I was amazed, first by the orderly and intelligent design of their home, then by Mrs. Pettes herself. I was not unaccustomed to formidable women as my mother was one herself. But where my mother’s force was some electric combination of high intelligence sparked with high emotion, Mrs. Pettes, also very intelligent, was more reasoned in her intellect. She was clearly cut of another cloth.

Her practicality was evident in her dress and style. She was attractive without having made much effort with makeup, lean and wearing a simple housedress with sensible shoes. No frills were in evidence, no hairstyle of the moment. Sara has said that her mother came to understand Sara’s love of fashion only late in life.

As I explored their home I marveled at the room in which one whole wall seemed taken up by a world map. I was awed by the design of the house with its retractable walls allowing rooms to grow or diminish in size as needed. What astonished me most was a posted schedule of activities and duties for mother and children. This was a practical household run by an educated, organized and pragmatic woman.

When it was time for dinner, rather than yelling for her children to come home, Dorothy Pettes simply stepped outside and blew a whistle. They not only knew what it meant, but learned to expect that sound near suppertime and to respond forthwith.

What I’ve learned about Dorothy Pettes since was that she was a woman of distinct and deeply-felt opinions, a life-long liberal who lived her beliefs, rather than just espousing them. Sara has told me that after Dorothy’s children were grown and on their own, she cared for foster children and, a lifelong member of the League of Women Voters, engaged in local political activities.

Engaged is a word that seems well-suited to Dorothy Moon Pettes. From her early decision to become a nurse through her years as an involved and loving parent to her lifetime commitment to social action, she was engaged in life. She saw the value of order in life and seemed to see clearly the way in which lack of disciplined care for others could be irresponsible and hurtful.

One of my favorite memories of Mrs. Pettes is that she took Sara and her friends (including me) to see the Paul Newman movie, “Hud.” For those who haven’t seen the film or don’t remember the main character, Hud is an angry, often drunk and abusive cowboy, described on the movie posters as “the man with the barbed wire soul.” I don’t remember clearly why she went with us. We might have begged her to go with us to a movie rated beyond our years or she accompanied us because she felt it inappropriate for us to see without an adult to provide perspective. In either case, it was we girls who simply had to see that particular movie and she acquiesced.

We girls, then teenagers with raging hormones, found Newman’s sultry portrayal of Hud at once frightening and exciting, crude and sexy. As we left the Emory Theater, Mrs. Pettes stopped on the sidewalk commented tersely that she “certainly wouldn’t want to live next door to that man.” I’ve never forgotten how stunned I was by her practical analysis of the character. Though we laughed at her comment later, we’ve acknowledged in our grown-up years that she had, indeed, hit the nail on the head.

Lest I paint a picture of a woman too orderly and practical to be warm, I must say that I always felt her sincere welcome when I was in their home. She had a beautiful smile that lit up her eyes. Her home was open to her children’s friends and she accommodated our silliness and our attempts at serious discourse with patience. A woman with a wry sense of humor, she must have found some amusement in the strange politics of the occasional Tri-Hi-Y club meetings held in that room with the wall-size map.

I think she might have agreed with what Confucius wrote: “To put the world right in order, we must first put the nation in order; to put the nation in order, we must first put the family in order; to put the family in order, we must first cultivate our personal life; we must first set our hearts right.”

I am convinced that Dorothy Moon Pettes had set her heart right. She will be missed and she will be remembered with tears and laughter, affection and admiration.

Anger, Fear and Disappointment -- What's Next?

It seems a lot of people are angry today, at least that’s what they say. It looks more like too many of us are afraid and putting on our angry face to chase away the demons that threaten us. It’s one of those disappointing times when those who spread fear like a virus are winning and they freeze too many of us like the proverbial deer in the headlights.

They tell us there’s no room to support one another, encourage us to assume that every man, woman and family is isolated, preyed upon by everything from Al Qaeda to big government. We’re to fear the Democrats who spend too much and Republicans who only care about the rich. We’re to feel a threat from anyone who doesn’t believe as we do. Too many of us are discouraged because, in these difficult times, we don’t feel safe and we’re not sure that we and our country are going in the right direction.

It is important to remember that we’ve been here before, not once, but many times. The price of independence and American democracy is high. As long as we can acknowledge that its value is of equal or greater importance, we remain reasonable. But, at times like these, when we’re more concerned with what we don’t have today or don’t know about tomorrow, we become fearful and we attempt to protect ourselves with anger. It’s as if we believe that shouting will drown out our problems.

There’s often talk of the “founding fathers,” those men who crafted and signed the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution. We refer to those men and that time as if they were in perfect harmony and had all the answers for the questions we have today. In truth, they, too, knew disappointing times, times of partisan politics, bitter divisions, fear and anger.

John Adams, our second U.S. President, and pivotal in the country’s founding, said: “The people, when they have been unchecked, have been as unjust, tyrannical, brutal, barbarous, and cruel, as any king or senate possessed of uncontrollable power. The majority has eternally, and without one exception, usurped over the rights of the minority."

Thomas Jefferson, our third President and a key architect of our country’s foundations famously fell out with John Adams, once a close friend. As Adams left office, to be followed by Jefferson, Adams’ last-minute appointments, Jefferson said, were “among my most ardent political enemies.” Their estrangement lasted a decade until mutual friends encouraged them to begin corresponding. They did so until both died on July 4, 1826.

Of course, the Civil War was the height of disaffection and anger that was carried to the ultimate level of conflict. We can be grateful that the current uproar hasn’t led to that! Abraham Lincoln was, of course, not popular with Southern politicians. But even staunch Union supporters managed to say some pretty awful things about him. His own Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton, for whom Lincoln generally had high regard, referred to Lincoln’s “painful imbecility.”

So, it’s nothing new, this incivility. It is, however, a regrettable sign of our times. We can only hope that whatever the outcome of today’s elections, the message taken by both parties and lived out in Washington sooner rather than later is that there is important business to do in this country and it’s time to do it. It’s natural for there to be disagreement about which solutions will work. If there is no compromise, thus nothing is done, and then none of them deserves to be called public servants.

[Sorry no pretty pictures with this one.]

Back in the U.S.A.

We slept in a little this morning with a shorter drive planned today from Bangor to Boston. Interstates 95 and 295 are the quickest routes south and allowed us to have a repeat visit to the New Hampshire coast.

We enjoyed Petey’s Summertime Seafood Restaurant so much on our way north that we decided to go there again for lunch. Their lobster dishes are simply wonderful. We decided to get out and walk at a nearby state park on the beach and enjoyed the fresh air and ocean views there. There are amazing huge homes along the coast there, quite a few for sale, probably with hefty price tags.

Rye Harbor

We stopped, too, at Rye Harbor to watch a lobster boat unloading its catch onto a waiting truck. The afternoon was sunny and beautiful as we hung around the docks. There are a couple of granite memorials there commemorating men and women who have fished these waters for a living. Mike took pictures and I met and talked with a woman taking photographs. She had brought her 21-year-old son there to take advantage of the relatively warm weather on this late October day. She shared their story of her son’s struggle with an illness that has been difficult to diagnose.

This positive and pleasant lady (who lives nearby) pointed us further south to Hampton Beach and another park with a row of small, colorfully painted beach “shacks.” There was also a small, creatively designed garden there and lots of people walking and jogging on the path along the seawall. All along the coast here there are benches with plaques dedicating them to folks who have lived and vacationed here.

We made our way off the beach road and down I-95 to the airport where we checked into an airport hotel and turned in our rental car. This has been a wonderful trip in so many ways, but we’re ready to head home where Michael will meet us at the Charlotte airport tomorrow. We’re happy that we could celebrate with others in Halifax. And there’s no question that we found great places we’ll want to visit again and learned about others that go on our list of places we want to go.

(All photos by Mike Lumpkin except this one by me.  Wherever we go, he's got his camera in hand, finding the shots that remind us of sights we never want to forget, memories we want to save and savor in years to come.  My joy is being in those places with him, sometimes pointing out something he might want to photograph, always reveling in his unique eye for the beauty and often the humor of what we see.  This one was taken as he turned back toward the car from the gorgeous colors of autumn on a little road in New Hampshire. You can see in his stride the pure joy he experiences in capturing the special moments we find.)