March 15 - Car

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Now if today's challenge had been horse and carriage, I would've been set. I have a wonderful photo of my Beloved in New York in one of those Central Park horse and buggies.

Had it been bicycle, I would have raced outside to take a shot of an old bike I've got gathering cobwebs and earmarked for a garden makeover.

But no. Today, I had to photograph a car. Not easy, when you want to stick to your theme of old world-romance.

Thankfully, my Beloved likes to collect vintage style replicas of old model cars. Prettier to the eye and more romantic than the family car in our garage, this is an 'ornament' car I don't mind having around. I guess some boys never outgrow their love of all things... brmmm brmmm! Thankfully it's a miniature, with no petrol tank.

And I guess I should be glad I don't have to care for the old fashioned mode of transport either, by mucking out a horse stall and filling buckets with oats.

But I've ridden in an Amish buggy. I've listened to the sounds of the night as our host let his horse meander 'round the streets and take us the long way home. To the slow clip clop of hooves on a wet road, where our hearts became endeared to a way of life less rushed and more in tune with the smell of rain and grass.

If I could choose it would be horse and buggy in the rain. Every time. How about you? 

March 14 - Clouds

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During our 12 months in Thailand, we lived in an apartment complex with many young families from around the world.  My dear Canadian friend Reshmi and I would take our children to the swimming pool on the 7th floor, as we searched for ways to keep them cool and busy.

Not only was our year spent in a country far from home, but as a family we discovered the peculiarities of apartment living. The ease with which one child could be taken in the elevator to another child's home for a play date. The luxury of having a pool without needing to care for it, and the terrifying site of window washers hanging outside our rooms with their cleaning apparatus, 28 stories up.

Unaccustomed to living so high, the view from our windows never got old. A stream of traffic ribboned along the motorways and side streets without ceasing. Night and day. The only time we didn't see it so clearly, was when it rained.

And rain it did. Anyone who's experienced Bangkok's weather, knows shoes get wet and trousers need folding up if you get caught in a sudden downpour.

One such day I received a call from dear Reshmi. Her children were restless and wanting company. She suggested we hit the pool.

Torrents cascaded off the windows and walls. 'Today? In the rain?'

In my mind I imagined Reshmi move closer to one of her windows. And boy, did she have beautiful windows. She lived in the Penthouse Apartment on the 45th floor, with unmatched views across the sprawling city. 'What rain?' she asked.

'Reshmi, it's pouring out there. Has been all day. Where have you been?'

'Here. And I don't see any rain.' We laughed as she looked down from her apartment perched above the clouds, where even the showers fell below, without her knowledge.

We made different plans that day, even if I don't remember them. But I do remember, discovering there are people who really live above the clouds. Way above them. Not just in songs, with rainbows.

Back in Melbourne, and grounded by our realities here, we look up to where the clouds hang. Like most people, we know rain is falling when it hits us on the head.

Unless the day is fine and you stop for a moment to look up from your driveway, through your boys' basketball hoop, to the spot where perhaps, in another world, an apartment building may graze the sky. And there beside a freshly washed window, a friend may bask in the sunshine.

I certainly hope so.

March 13 - A Sign

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I've always dreamed of having backyard chickens. Fresh eggs, free manure for my veggies, and pets, all rolled into one cute package. Who wouldn't? It took some persuading to get my Beloved to agree, but in the end the poulet chalet came to our yard and soon after our first flock of hens.

When I spied this olde worlde tin sign at a market in Shipshewana, Indiana, I knew it was the perfect memento to bring home to my Aussie backyard. Light and easy to pack, it's smooth repatriation to the chook shed door gave the poulet chalet that certain, yesteryear feel. Especially, the undervalued price of eggs!

And while my intentions of marking and defining their domain with a cozy sign brought me some measure of delight, it seems the chickens themselves were not served in any way by my efforts. Some wintery days you would think the sign read;

'No eggs for you. We're taking the day off.'

No, these chickens don't rely on painted signs. They're driven by real ones. They hear the porch door slam, know I'm on my way with a bucket of scraps and jostle for prime feeding positions. They practically snap their own necks to fight for the odd worm I toss their way when I'm gardening. And when they see shadows lengthen over the apricot tree each evening, they soon make their way in single file up the ladder to their roosting post.

Some months back my sign fell off the hen house door, and got stashed behind the gardening tools. Rust blended with cobwebs and dirt to cover the words completely. It didn't make any difference to my girls. They kept on living as they always had. Scratching around for what they needed, and giving what they could in return.

Thankfully, like my little chickens, we are not defined by the labels people put on us. We can be who God designed us to be with complete freedom to listen to Him, and not the demands of those who think they know better.

As our calendar bring us nearer to Easter, I can't help catching a glimpse of the work of the Lord Jesus, when I keep watch over my little backyard flock. I am reminded, only the Creator has the right to place a value on us, and He's already done that.

We are priceless. Paid for by a ransom only His son could afford.

A SOLD sign I'm blessed and humbled to wear.

March 12 - Fork

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Have you ever had one item in your house which everyone wanted, only because it was one of a kind? My mother had one in her kitchen when we were growing up. It was an ugly grey and brown melamine plate which came too close to the gas stove one day and sported a scorch mark for the rest of its working life. This burnt edge made it different, and by some strange turn, special. So special my brother and I would leap across the room to ask for it when Mum dished up our tea each night. It wasn't even pretty. But still, we fought over it for its individuality.

Fast-forward 20 years and my own young family scored their own 'special' kitchen item. A fork, brought home after a business trip to China by my Beloved. His hosts had kindly given it to him and advised he hold onto it for the whole trip, in case chop sticks didn't thrill him.

As he unpacked, we were all bemused to see the addition of a stainless steel fork to the pile of gifts he'd brought home.

Said fork soon took on the name, The China Fork. No surprises then, that my own offspring soon hollered to have their turn with The China Fork beside their plate. Too bad if you'd eaten with it the night before. You would have to wait your turn another two nights.

And the reason this fork took on such appeal?  It had a story. Nothing any other piece of cutlery in the drawer could match.

And isn't that what grabs our attention? In our ordinary, garden variety, everyday kind of world, we like to hear a story, no matter how simple.

Once upon a time, I fell in the fire.
One upon a time, I was smuggled out of China.

And in the case of the silver fork in today's picture... Once upon a time, I was dug out of the ground where someone had buried me years before.

True story. I did the digging.

My grandmother did the burying.

See what I mean. Story pulls us in. And holds us there.

Got an ordinary item in your home with a cool story of its own? Come share with me and add to my comments. I'd love to hear it.

March 11- Someone you talked to today

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Today, I talked to my mum on the phone. Twice. This happens most days, as we like to 'visit' each other and find out the goings on of family life.

Isn't she beautiful?

Sometimes I forget she ever had a life without me in it. That she was a young girl with hopes and dreams of her own like everyone else. That when she was 14 she spent a year in school with a wicked teacher who wouldn't let any girl cut their hair and forced them to wear it in long plaits. Aren't hers gorgeous?

I forget that in 1959 she went on a school excursion to the beach and was the only girl to pose for the photographer in mourning clothes, as her father had died earlier that year. I forget she toured famous archeological sites around Greece and played a guardsman in the school play. That her summers were spent picking cotton on the family farm when all she wanted was to escape to Australia and start afresh.

Ten years after this photo was taken, she was a new mum, with me to talk to.

She talked to me so much I knew how to speak earlier than most babies, and could recite Bible verses well before my 2nd birthday.

We haven't stopped talking since. There's always something to hold off for the next time we chat. Which will probably be tomorrow, while I do the ironing with the phone cradled under my chin.

Love you Mum. xx 

March 10 - Loud

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I took a short cut with this photo.

It's my wedding anniversary today and I'm away at the beach with my Beloved, celebrating our 22 years together.

He wrote the word LOUD in the sand for me. He does things like that. When I'm stuck and need help, I know he'll come up with something. When I think there's no solution, he finds one and when I'm not brave enough, he tells me there's nothing to be afraid of.

I guess in many ways, he is the LOUD in my world. He turned up the music the day we married, and it's been pealing every day since.

Here's my favourite song. He sang it while we walked along the foreshore at sunset this evening. Loud enough for all to hear and see.

And even though it won't be there by morning, I'm a lucky girl. I've come to expect something equally loud will ring again tomorrow.

March 9 - Red

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I once nearly burned our house down. It's a true story.

After telling my kids not to play with candles when they're lit, I did that very thing, and ran my finger through the flame of a candle as it burned beside me on my desk.

Oh, I thought I was so clever to enjoy a little fire while I wrote. Just like my heroine would have as she wrote in her journal. And I just couldn't help myself.

In a moment of weakness, I made the flame dance with the quick passing of my finger and I don't to this day know how I managed it, but ended up with a lit candle, still burning on the carpet at my feet. In a pool of molten wax. Not the interruption I needed.

I learned my lesson that day. I learned how to remove wax from wool, how to scrape it off the edge of a wooden desk, and how to place any future candles on the book shelf, way beyond my reach.

And now you know why I wear a writing shawl. It's a safer way of disappearing into the 1870s than going up in smoke.

March 8 - Window

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I made two discoveries this morning as I lay across our staircase to take today's photo. 

1. I have a new found respect for photographers.

I've seen them contort indelicately to capture the best angle for their shots, but now I have a new appreciation for the twisting of bodies in the name of art. And glad I am, as a writer, I can sit at the computer with my shawl and peppermint tea and create scenes which don't require the scraping of my spine along hard wooden steps. 

2. I haven't watched a cloud pass me by in ages. 

I must run up and down our stairs countless times each day, and while my eye might catch on the goings-on at ground level, I hardly ever stop to look up through this window. See those clouds in my picture? They were gone after I took this shot. In two seconds the view changed and I sat there for a long while, looking at the moving sky as if it were new to me. 

I wondered how many moments of splendour I've missed in my rush to get to where I think I should be. How many times God has reached for me when I've been busy doing my own thing, and how many others share the same regrets I do. 

It's been 8 days of photo taking so far. And while I've used this challenge to kick-start my daily blog posts as well as play the Marchphotoaday game, I've gleaned a little more than writing and photography.

I've slowed down and looked at my world in a new way. Considered what surrounds me, and how it came to be there. 

And I'm seeing afresh how God fits into and above everything I gather for my nest. He sent the clouds to fashion the skies. He drapes me with feathers and protects my writing dream. He's the keeper of days and clocks only count what He allows. He gives me reason to smile, a story to tell, sets me in the neighbourhood where I live and provides my daily bread. And figs. And cheese. 

And at every turn, gives me reason to look up. 

My help comes from the Lord. The maker of heaven and earth. 

Psalm 121:2

March 7 - Something you wore

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I know what you're thinking. This could be a curtain or granny's lap blanket. Well, I promise it's not. It's a cream shawl, with pretty detail and long fringe. And I wear it when I write.

It sits on the back of my chair, and now that Autumn mornings sneak up on us with their welcome chill, I'm glad to wrap it round my shoulders.

When my fingers get stuck in its lacy holes, or it slips off my shoulders, I straighten it again and imagine I'm not the only one wearing 19th century garb. I let the wool scratch against my neck or twist the edges of the fringe until they're frayed, and imagine how my heroine might feel with something similar draped over her. How she might use it to cover herself late at night when she's afraid. How she might tangle her fingers in the loops of wool as she wrestles with the issues of love and life.

Gathered alongside other pieces for an 1850s costume, I wore this thrift shop find on a school camp to the gold-fields in Sovereign Hill when my Tom was in year 4. It remained buried in the dress up box for years until it made the significant leap from costume to one of my favourite pieces of clothing. (Inside the house only!)

Now, I wouldn't be without it. It adds to the atmosphere of my world alongside tea pots, a fountain pen and old photographs. All kept close to inspire and evoke some of what my stories share. The fixtures of my writing room, where threads of romance knit together and drape my world in the richness of happily ever afters.

March 6 - 5pm

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If there were ever a perfect clock for the wall of a romance writer, this would have to be a firm contender.  Taken from the illustrations of Cicely Mary Barker, it caught my eye many years ago and quickly found its way home with me. Could I really leave a clock behind when it whispered, 'storybook?'

A clock and book cover all in one. Clever idea, that. In this age of custom made gifts and mass produced knickknacks I wonder if any of my writer friends consider making their book covers more than just that. A clock or a calendar to glance at all year? The front cover of a notebook perhaps or a set of mugs? Definitely a screen saver, right?

I've seen writers' walls with their first edition dust covers, framed and hung in rows. Entire franchises hum with book spun merchandise from t-shirts to bedspreads, and if your book's for children, the ubiquitous cartoon lunchbox. 

I have dreams for my book cover. I know the model well. She's my favourite green-eyed honey-girl and will look just like a heroine should, when she frocks up in costume. And perhaps we too can think of special ways to mark the occasion when the cover finally arrives. 

For now, I polish the inside. And I try not to watch the clock too much, as I scribble away.