Occasionally I’ll go wandering. On this particular day, I decided to see where a road I’d never noticed before led. The answer: nowhere.

As I turned the car around, the nose of the car pointed at this piece of art. Who made it? Why? Where did all the pieces come from?

Floodland isn’t far away. Were these washed away in the heavy rains? Did kids do it? Adults?


At the Cemetery

I love old cemeteries where no one worries about mowing the grass. Life and death deserve to be celebrated. The grave is one of the last places families have to demonstrate their love.

Not Our Little Lamb

One of the saddest sights at a cemetery (beyond vandalized memorials) is children’s graves. Usually a child is memorialized with a dove or a lamb.

Until relatively recently, about 40% of children died before their first birthday. It’s especially disheartening to see a child who died before earning a first name; their stones are often marked with “Dau of” or “Son of” rather than a name.

This child was obviously loved. The memorial shows a child resting. May the child continue to rest in peace.

A memorial to a child

A Child Sleeps Here

Judge Scruggs

My mother raised me with a healthy enjoyment of cemeteries. She was raised only a few houses from her town’s cemetery. I was often taken to cemeteries to visit the dead, familial and otherwise.

I enjoy the memorials. Some are creative. Some are beautiful. I enjoy the handcut headstones and footstones. Some graves are tended while others suffer neglect–even abuse. The “mow-able” cemeteries with their flat headstones and footstones, level to the ground so that the cemeteries is mower friendly bore me.

If I had had children, I wouldn’t have created a new name to make my child’s name memorable. I’d have visited an old cemetery to see old names that have faded out of use.

I’m quite curious about some of the graves. “There’s a story here” is a comment that I often end up making.

Who was Judge Scruggs? What was he notable for, beyond the obvious achievement of becoming part of a respectable profession? Was he a founding father of Denton? Who was the stonemason that created such a lovely piece of cemetery art? I’d have needed to have spent a lot more time in Denton to get my answers.

The Memorial of Judge Scruggs

Memorializing a Judge

This particular cemetery dates back to the 1860s. Denton was incorporated in 1866.

Thunderbird on the Roof

I passed by this building, always admiring the roof, without actually noticing the thunderbird. I blame the fact that I passed the building twice at night before walking past twice (at least!) during the day. It took an afternoon walk for me to see the art.

The thunderbird is not, as I first thought, painted on. It’s in the tiles. A mosaic roof! What a lovely idea.

A thunderbird has been tiled into the roof.

The Thunderbird on the Rooftop

“Sweet Little Song” by Leonard Cohen

Listen to the hummingbird
Whose wings you cannot see
Listen to the hummingbird
Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the butterfly
Whose days but number three
Listen to the butterfly
Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the mind of God
Which doesn’t need to be
Listen to the mind of God
Don’t listen to me.


Leonard Cohen died before he finished this song. I heard about it from an interview on NPR. I’ve been looking for nature poetry to tie in with my photographs. Now I’m thinking I need to look more at songs by Leonard Cohen because I really love these few lines. I wish he’d had time to finish it.

Where Have I Been?

I spent July traveling with my dad. We visited five national parks and monuments. It was the first time he’d ever been to a national park. We also went on his first hike.

At the end of July, I visited Galveston for the first time in over a decade. We were lured to the Houston area by a walk in downtown Houston’s underground. Two weeks later, the hurricane struck.

Soon after that, I began to notice changes in my vision. I reported to my ophthalmologist. I’ve known since I was 20 that I was particularly vulnerable to macular degeneration. 15 years ahead of schedule, I was experiencing some of the signs that I may be experiencing some of the effects.

The doctor told me to take it easy. Do nothing that may jar my eyes. If my symptoms worsened, I was to report in immediately. I’d probably need (another) eye surgery to prevent the loss of vision (aka blindness).

I was monitored closely. My vision did not follow the typcial route and it took longer than normal to be cleared for a return to normal activities. The week after Thanksgiving I was cleared.

I’ve lost a little bit of my peripheral vision in my left eye. I will continue to have floaters and webbing. But I’m cleared to enjoy life again.

Sign of the Cross

It was a beautiful day when I took this photo. Rain was brewing and the wind was picking up. The sounds of the insects buzzing became background noise as I hunted for an ancestral gravesite.

Three graves down from my great-great-grandfather, I was drawn to this display of family love and devotion.

An artisan cross at a grave.

This grave stands out above the rest.


The Purple Angel

I love art in old cemeteries. So many modern cemeteries are cold and boring. Old cemeteries understand that memorials are for remembered the dearly departed.

This angel was freshly painted and radiant. I wonder why the family chose the colors they did for the angel. I wonder what prayers they uttered as they prepared the gravesite.

The Purple Angel

Purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red. The color purple is often associated with royalty, nobility, luxury, power, and ambition. Purple also represents meanings of wealth, extravagance, creativity, wisdom, dignity, grandeur, devotion, peace, pride, mystery, independence, and magic.

String Art!

We had to visit the museum in Fort Worth. While Victor hunted for a particular art piece for his class, I wandered and fell in love with some string art. It was placed in a gallery with windows. As the sun passes, the shadows shift and the rainbow moves. I was fascinated.


String Art from a Different PoV

Photo of String Art

String Art