The honking of Canada geese as they travel in skeins across the sky. Robins hopping on winter-deadened lawns. The chirping of chickadees in still-barren bushes. All these recent signs of imminent spring, signs that I've looked forward to during many an overcast winter day, have been uplifting. But no sign cheers my winter-soddened spirits quite as much as the first spring flower.

In our yard, this was the snowdrop that bloomed on March 4.



Although the first day of spring last week was accompanied by snow, I scanned my yard for more hints of the coming season.
 


Among the dead leaves and barren earth, a few heartening signs have appeared.
 


 

During the warm-weather months, you can often find me in my garden, my refuge from the day's pressures, my escape into a world of simple splendor. No matter how many times I walk through my garden, I am captivated by its beauty - not because I created the gardens, but because of the magnificence of God's creation. The exquisite charm of the individual plants astounds me. The early morning sunlight skimming across the garden flowers takes my breath away.

A walk through my garden is also a visit with friends because my garden is a tapestry of gifts - lamb's ear from Josie, liatris from Michele, irises from Joy, forget-me-nots from Joanna, sedum from Deniz... My sister gave me a spiderwort; my brother Alex - a hosta.

A saunter down my stone pathways can be a journey to another place: the wild columbine reminds me of a trip to Buttermilk Falls; the trillium - the hills of Ellison Park; the phlox - my cousin's cottage garden in Ukraine.
 


Over the years, I have photographed my gardens, in part to record the blossoms, and in part to be able to compare from year to year what blooms when. The date and time metadata for digital picture files have made that easy.



Last year I made an extra effort to document my gardens from the early spring blossoms through the first snow. So as I wait for the days to lengthen and my flowers to unfurl, I invite you to walk through my garden with me.
 

"It felt like I've been here before," said my daughter Kalyna as we boarded our bus, which was parked on a muddy, unpaved road. "Then I suddenly realized that I haven't been to a shantytown before. This is my first time! All your pictures from your trips made it seem like I've been to one before."



And that was my plan all along. Not everyone can visit distant lands or have the opportunity to see how all too many of the world's population live. But I've had that chance, and I've brought back pictures that make my friends and family think twice before complaining about some unfilled "need" for, say, designer clothing.



    my daughter Kalyna

Seeing for yourself is even better than looking at pictures. Thus a little over a year ago, Kalyna and I brought in the New Year in Honduras, one of the poorest and least developed countries in Latin America where nearly two-thirds of the population lives in poverty. We were there on a youth mission trip with Global Expeditions. About 65 of us spent our Christmas vacation visiting orphanages, playing with children, hugging and holding them, teaching and presenting skits, showing them the love of Christ, and giving away toys.

This stop at the shantytown was part of our agenda. Situated in the luscious, green Honduran countryside among dramatic mountains, these small shacks were pieced together out of corrugated metal, wood, sheets of plastic, and lots of cardboard - whatever materials these people could gather. Colorful laundry hung out to dry. Children played with sticks in puddles. Although the sight of such poverty was overwhelming and somewhat intimidating at first, we quickly found the residents open and friendly - much friendlier than wealthier counterparts often are.




 


"I was a little shocked at first. I didn't know what to expect," said Anna, one of the teens on the trip. We walked among the shanties inviting children to come to our bus so we could drive them to a church building where we had activities planned for them. The bus quickly filled with excited children, most of who do not go to school. About a quarter of them were barefooted.




 
    skit presentation 

"It was blessing to be there," Anna went on. "And I realized how fortunate I am."

Indeed, most of us take for granted the things that we have.

After our skits and songs and games, we drove the children back home in our packed school bus. Then we visited some of the houses. Some of the youth were even invited into a shanty to learn to make tortillas.



"This was a complete eye opener," shared Stephanie, another teenager. "I've never been to a place like this before. It was incredible!"

This kind of experience stays with you. And having photos of it lets me remember and share it for years to come.

The worst sin toward our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them. That's the essence of inhumanity.

     -- George Bernard Shaw
 

The call came at 3:30 AM.

"Vera, pray... Alex had a very bad accident. They have to do surgery on his head and he has only 50% chance of surviving..."

My brother Alex was on vacation in Kansas City at a motorcycle rally in September, but the accident wasn't a motorcycle crash; a golf cart hit him while he was walking on the rally grounds. He landed on his head from the impact. He never regained consciousness...

Alex Elyjiw was one of five children, the middle child with two older sisters who bossed him around, and two younger brothers whom he bossed around. I was the oldest, so I knew Alex his entire life. It wasn't always fun having to look after younger siblings, so at the cottage where we vacationed, I once tried to lose him in the woods. As he got older, Alex became more interesting company, so I sought his companionship. We backpacked together in the Shenandoah Mountains, skied at Mt. Tremblont, or drove up to Toronto, where we were both born, to visit friends and family. Then for many years, we lived in different cities, and I didn't see Alex very often at all.

In the last seven years, however, we saw more of each other than any time since our childhoods. That's because Alex came to work for TKM (Technical Knowledge Management) at Kodak three months after that department hired me. He was multimedia graphic designer; I am a writer. Alex used to walk by my cubicle every day on the way to the coffeepot. Inevitably, he would stop by to chat. It felt special to have my brother working with me at Kodak. And when the tragic news of his death came, my coworkers were also in shock. I had lost a brother; they had lost a friend.

In that frenzy of activity before the funeral when family members divide up tasks, I volunteered to handle the photographs for a display and a slide show of Alex's life. Our family scrambled to gather photos depicting a lifetime of events: growing up in Toronto, Chicago, Pittsburgh, and Rochester; a vagabond life of skiing and odd jobs; time in the Coast Guard; and then his more settled adult years here in Rochester.

My father was an avid photographer who recorded much of our childhoods on Ektachrome slide film. I had some slides digitized at a local photo store and was stunned to see how well these slides withstood the test of time. The old prints didn't hold up quite as well. Click through the slide below and see for yourself.

My coworkers were enormously supportive and helpful during this very difficult time, making enlargements of Alex for display, creating two huge posters of pictures from his life, and delivering these to me at home. They even brought our family meals and cleaned up Alex's yard after a windstorm left behind many broken branches.

I can't communicate a lifetime of memories in one post, but I say this: Alex touched people. His exuberance was contagious, his love of people apparent.

Some people come into our lives and quietly go. Others stay for a while and leave footprints on our hearts and we are never the same.
- Bob Stewart

The rains had ruined our plans for the day, so the kids pulled out board games and the adults chatted. We were in Petryliv, a village in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains in western Ukraine where my cousin Yuri* lived. It was August, and I had wanted to see the harvest being gathered. But the rains meant the harvest was delayed, and since we were leaving the next day, I would not see - or photograph - the gathering of the crops.

"Maybe we could go for a walk," I suggested to my cousin after the downpour was over. "Show me the local church or cemetery - something I haven't seen yet in your village." These were a poor alternative to seeing the harvest, which had been in full swing before the cloudburst, but what else could I do?

Cousin Yuri obliged, and we wandered down a muddy road toward the church.

My gregarious cousin knew everyone in this small village, so our walk was punctuated by stops to chat with people. As a horse-drawn wagon clip-clopped toward us, Yuri greeted the couple, and they stopped briefly to talk.



I learned that they were going to their field to collect the barley they had harvested, but not gathered before the rainstorm. Taking advantage of this unexpected opportunity, I asked unabashedly, "May I come with you?"

What could they say? "Of course...."

So I climbed into the wagon and grabbed my cousin's hand, pulling him on board, too.

As we clip-clopped past my cousin's house on the way to the field, my daughter Kalyna spotted me in the wagon. The couple stopped so she could clamber onto the wagon as well.



Up in the fields above the village, the couple's son joined them to help.



I learned how it's done as well and insisted on helping, much to the village woman's amusement.



While we gathered the barley, their horse, Chestnut, kept nudging closer to sample the harvested grain, so my daughter got an unexpected "driving lesson," thus keeping the horse's muzzle out of the grain.



When we were done filling the burlap bags with barley, we helped load the wagon.



What started out as a dull, rainy day ended up being a memorable adventure, thanks to the openness and hospitality of villagers.



* Since my cousin (on left) died recently, these pictures and memories mean even more to me.

Sometimes what we consider burdens turn out to be blessings. Take the day I wanted to go for a bike ride alone in Kopychyntsi, my husband's hometown in Ukraine - and the town my father was born in. My daughter Kalyna begged to go with me, but I wanted to go by myself.

"I'll be stopping a lot to take pictures," I warned her, knowing how she dislikes my constant picture taking. "Pictures of houses..."

 

...and street scenes..."

...and people."

I don't want to hear any complaints about how much I stop, and that I take too many pictures!"

I hoped this would discourage her, but Kalyna agreed not to complain, so I reluctantly let her come with me - but only to the end of the street. Or so I thought.

When we arrived at the end of the street, we were, unexpectedly, at the very edge of town. Beyond were open fields.

Kalyna accompanied me down the bumpy dirt road and continued to explore with me. Soon we were far from the town in the middle of extensive fields - fields of wheat and corn and barley.

"May I pick some of the wildflowers?" Kalyna asked. Here were the wild poppies that I'd heard so much about from my parents, the wildflowers of the Old Country.

When she'd picked a large bouquet of flowers, Kalyna asked, "Do you know how to make a wreath out of flowers?" A wreath of flowers worn on the head is part of the traditional Ukrainian costume.

By now I'd come to enjoy Kalyna's company. We were both enchanted by this isolated place we'd found, a place right out of the childhood stories I'd grown up with, stories of Cossacks on horseback and war and young maidens. I wove a wreath of flowers, which Kalyna proudly wore.

We rode on through the fields in what felt like the middle of nowhere, exploring a land I'd heard so much about as a child. Suddenly we came across a woman walking through the fields towards a small, brightly painted blue house. It was the only house in sight.

"Come in, come in," the woman invited us. "Have some coffee. I dreamt that I'd have guests today!"

Like most Ukrainians, she was extremely hospitable. While I drank coffee, Kalyna played with kittens and the woman chatted with me — and discovered my husband and her son were acquaintances!

This ride with Kalyna, which I started out grudgingly, is one of my favorite memories of the summer.

"Would you like to come to Khmelnytsky with us tomorrow?" my brother-in-law Andrij asked me during my stay in Ukraine.

Khmelnytsky, a city with the largest bazaar in western Ukraine, was a two-hour drive from my husband's hometown. My brother- and sister-in-law always left before dawn on their weekly trips to the bazaar to get the best deals. Every year when I visit Ukraine, I tag along with them to shop and to photograph the market area.

"Sure!" I said. "Just tell me when to be ready."

Normally Andrij and his wife Ira rush to get to Khmelnytsky as early as possible. As they speed through the countryside, I would sit in the back seat of their car, snapping mental pictures of the scenery - the rising sun, the shepherds taking their animals out to graze, the dew-soaked fields... Only at the bazaar would I pull out my camera.

But this year was different.

"We're not in a rush. If you want to take a picture, just let me know and I'll stop," said Andrij.

What an opportunity! I try not to impose on my hosts, so I rarely ask them to stop when I travel with them. This morning's invitation was a special treat.

The morning was enchantingly misty.

We came upon peasants herding their animals.

Not only was the dawn light phenomenal, but we also came upon a field where farmers were cutting hay the age-old way: with scythes. I felt I'd stepped back in time.

That morning, the mist, the peasants, and the countryside were magical. Unforgettable.

Back at my in-laws' house that evening, I uploaded the pictures to my laptop and showed the family what I had photographed.

A week later, after their weekly trip to Khmelnytsky, my sister-in-law mentioned to me, "You know, after seeing your pictures last week, this week's trip was different. I could see beauty that I had never noticed before."

It's all in the eye of the beholder.