tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88448151059888673542024-03-12T17:57:07.856-07:00All Things Beautifulis about friendship, about photographs, about lemon squares.
About Gloria Ricci and Isabel Sullivan and her camera, the Brownie Hawkeye. Isabel Sullivan, one of three sisters, was born November 3, 1939 in Batesville, Virginia.
Her love of picture taking was one of the many things that set her apart from her sisters, from everyone in fact.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-33543846471935953622009-11-30T10:19:00.001-08:002009-11-30T10:20:59.384-08:00Hatteras Lighthouse<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5t6TlHYuc3z2Tu1sRGnBsiV7GT86TNjBT3NvcPcqbiwfvmd57AHDIeDyyKxHO_ymL3XqEAb6WgMHDCFLQvd1Hb-Ifzrm2u-Quz-aHUWdvmPHSKnZqKXr8BIB6tcxXJ-q_psAFobouQls/s1600/lighthouse.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 315px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5t6TlHYuc3z2Tu1sRGnBsiV7GT86TNjBT3NvcPcqbiwfvmd57AHDIeDyyKxHO_ymL3XqEAb6WgMHDCFLQvd1Hb-Ifzrm2u-Quz-aHUWdvmPHSKnZqKXr8BIB6tcxXJ-q_psAFobouQls/s320/lighthouse.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409963129729995266" /></a>Hatteras Lighthouse, September, 2009. Shot with Brownie Hawkeye, c. 1955.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-19511424023469329812009-11-30T10:17:00.000-08:002009-11-30T10:18:33.177-08:00Chop Suey Tuey<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7O_boygIBYykn2y125ZxOUmfovZE_2NQNxe4iRp59cPuwkyajU6oFmsEk9XmlMxDTGcbP0l0yzrkb6wAPa7u2oDBfhjzB4lTuPnxS64YXwJqTztymlzl7i_yg7eHoinAxVRJtrViqxHA/s1600/chopsueytuey.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7O_boygIBYykn2y125ZxOUmfovZE_2NQNxe4iRp59cPuwkyajU6oFmsEk9XmlMxDTGcbP0l0yzrkb6wAPa7u2oDBfhjzB4lTuPnxS64YXwJqTztymlzl7i_yg7eHoinAxVRJtrViqxHA/s320/chopsueytuey.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409962442898968658" /></a>Chop Suey Tuey in shade. Street reflected in shop window. We love Ward. Shot with Brownie Hawkeye box camera, c. 1955Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-11903971949005053642009-11-30T10:15:00.000-08:002009-11-30T10:16:53.639-08:00Georgia Wren<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSaKlHWbigKLpF-45nqYw0JFH0fJGpOBZXWD6Z95Pf2YjfDO8i1lAYCy5JrIzwRm-yWwJB0apMqmQX1VFmkmvw7mw2f7MQlCndxLPOzBiw_nmDHtY3vbSyGKUbXNSqBFpYaNSeTD66KI/s1600/georgiawren.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSaKlHWbigKLpF-45nqYw0JFH0fJGpOBZXWD6Z95Pf2YjfDO8i1lAYCy5JrIzwRm-yWwJB0apMqmQX1VFmkmvw7mw2f7MQlCndxLPOzBiw_nmDHtY3vbSyGKUbXNSqBFpYaNSeTD66KI/s320/georgiawren.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409962113859185090" /></a>Georgia Wren in velvet, fruit loops and rock and roll boots. Unstoppable. November, 2009. Shot with Brownie Hawkeye.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-71679627891339576612009-10-04T06:13:00.000-07:002009-10-04T06:17:33.740-07:00Blowing dust and flour<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCpj6XdGQam0k-uk6NSy1uDQJ6YopXGL8lYFNSuAPofGBn4unNbO-EbApkMLozcjylcP48S5sJNQns_TjJX5smroJPsyJ8lxekv-fYg4ivsYevGGTxgOBkc15aGdApvf9f_z8BEI-qr4/s1600-h/avonpiersep09.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCpj6XdGQam0k-uk6NSy1uDQJ6YopXGL8lYFNSuAPofGBn4unNbO-EbApkMLozcjylcP48S5sJNQns_TjJX5smroJPsyJ8lxekv-fYg4ivsYevGGTxgOBkc15aGdApvf9f_z8BEI-qr4/s320/avonpiersep09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5388732481300685410" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><b>She blew dust and flour from that first book of beautiful things and pressed her lips to an old photo of Isabel, her image dark through the Brownie’s lens. </b> She turned the page to trace a drawing of Andromeda and another page to see pasted moth wings. The recipes were scrawled near the back. They were approximations, notes Gloria had made while Isabel mixed and folded—following recipes in her head—while Gloria had thought it important to put them on paper lest Isabel forget. Now, Gloria recopied the recipes onto index cards. In the evenings, she and Izzy practiced making peasant bread and lemon squares, guessing what ingredients Gloria had forgotten to write down. The cakes and breads were </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">all right</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, but just all right, and Gloria knew they had to be better, richer, and however complex, taste effortless. Baking was something you felt and not a recipe to be followed. And Gloria wasn’t there yet, but she would be, picturing herself a gifted baker, flour powdering her cheeks, wrists pinned to her face, asking Izzy for a towel or spoon. She kept at it. The more blindly she mixed, the recipe cards piled across the room, the tastier her breads and cakes. Late at night, lying with Isabel and Lillian’s recipes at her side, she regularly tasted strawberry jam before falling asleep. This was another good and weighty sign. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">* This is a photo of the Avon Pier in Avon, North Carolina. A delightfully wobbly wave-like pier as you can see.</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-11307966026159903022009-10-01T05:59:00.000-07:002009-10-01T06:00:34.134-07:00Mother and son<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk5VsYOTRA6ryqUBetv6IJ3_Y0GyzQsqHe7QS3bgBMqJpbCwvVa6Njq8NOc_LDFxCGcVLVI-AOMdcDfTZWwPOYEBKkNE0n-eNtHUp-6K_Lhvut8LZnuD-I3c5TKtd-XAbG80hPjRDL6Q/s1600-h/shelandchrissy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJk5VsYOTRA6ryqUBetv6IJ3_Y0GyzQsqHe7QS3bgBMqJpbCwvVa6Njq8NOc_LDFxCGcVLVI-AOMdcDfTZWwPOYEBKkNE0n-eNtHUp-6K_Lhvut8LZnuD-I3c5TKtd-XAbG80hPjRDL6Q/s320/shelandchrissy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387615614937002882" /></a>Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-87788332770467361322009-09-29T07:31:00.000-07:002009-09-30T05:23:18.738-07:00From ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JdP6WEo_HLRkv7DYgRkKPxA26DILB57hyphenhyphen8OXnqxBENr_mJrxEESFgC8J2yAKojTsS1bZInz3nwWGuncQQkVesL1OZvRjkPQy1SlXOTtfflZwSrl01rb30WwyzaP8UFnS1pqmB3PxQcg/s1600-h/DSCN0030.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JdP6WEo_HLRkv7DYgRkKPxA26DILB57hyphenhyphen8OXnqxBENr_mJrxEESFgC8J2yAKojTsS1bZInz3nwWGuncQQkVesL1OZvRjkPQy1SlXOTtfflZwSrl01rb30WwyzaP8UFnS1pqmB3PxQcg/s320/DSCN0030.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386898152742888482" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><b>As the exterior restoration drew to a close, Gl</b>oria pictured a full square of glass, her at its center, piled with scrumptious confections.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She imagined a little bell chiming as customers came and went.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She could see loaves of peasant bread hot from the oven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Lemon squares pulled from the refrigerator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She imagined rich brown cakes and caramel drizzled brownies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She could even see Isabel sometimes, flour in her hair, sprinkled down her shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Isabel blowing hair from her face, her powdery wrists pinned to her forehead, the charm dangling white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Can you get me a towel?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%">One night after Izzy had gone to bed, before the ovens had been installed, before the mixer had arrived, before she had anything resembling a bakery, Gloria sat on the shop’s back steps listening to the Brickhouse Run, a small stream, gurgle past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Crickets chirped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The moon was full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She pressed the charm bracelet to her lips and felt this wave of warmth overtake her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was as if confidence and certainty had materialized and wrapped her in their arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">It’s going to be all right.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">You made it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There’s nothing to fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Just let go.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She took a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Of course it’s going to be okay</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She held back tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">I’m fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We’re fine.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She blinked keeping them at bay. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">We’re safe now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We’ll always be safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i>Remembering the girl she’d been before the Belmont Institute, she relented to the warmth and wept.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Tears spilling down her blouse and wetting her jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She said, “It’s all right, Gloria.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">You loved him or you tried to love him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Izzy is safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Let go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i>She cried, the taste of strawberry jam on her tongue.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i>She’d make Isabel’s strawberry tarts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She’d make everything!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%">The creek shone beneath the moonlight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Groggy with tears and croaking toads and churning water, she went upstairs to watch Izzy sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Free of dread, she climbed into bed beside her daughter, sleeping better than she had since marrying Jacob Butterfield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was good to be home.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-55920787733780909692009-08-31T04:18:00.000-07:002009-08-31T04:22:45.393-07:00Conservatory<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpg6MdAZZ-BL28pUwP4DrefJ61GZy3crBrHMsMHtjjAdE2gAIhNOT4JpuxYwNtM7aKF9EpRnaRsuwIUSaqo71a4y2a4KyX5kl3PoJmykhk2U1CWRyleKQd81amq4knicffrmmvkbEoRR4/s1600-h/conservatory.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpg6MdAZZ-BL28pUwP4DrefJ61GZy3crBrHMsMHtjjAdE2gAIhNOT4JpuxYwNtM7aKF9EpRnaRsuwIUSaqo71a4y2a4KyX5kl3PoJmykhk2U1CWRyleKQd81amq4knicffrmmvkbEoRR4/s320/conservatory.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376086225885780018" /></a>I took this picture at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond, Virginia.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-49180808400519867972009-08-27T11:22:00.000-07:002009-08-27T11:30:20.020-07:00Jillie and Isabel Sullivan, Summer 1953<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCmMgNLBlffGrr1178IT732fHXDJLsThPCRZCCdY29592oiRnlPnmwg9cIHjJGl1xYdeHgAEzSQPXS-gLYy74wOHbbS8mVU2KnTnpXSi63HgdCtIB30XzZ3ExyiSEYhyC-rLchcRcaLs/s1600-h/sc0000b350.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVCmMgNLBlffGrr1178IT732fHXDJLsThPCRZCCdY29592oiRnlPnmwg9cIHjJGl1xYdeHgAEzSQPXS-gLYy74wOHbbS8mVU2KnTnpXSi63HgdCtIB30XzZ3ExyiSEYhyC-rLchcRcaLs/s320/sc0000b350.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374710984098389698" /></a>Mama took this picture of Jillie and me beside Mr. Beauvoir's house. You can see behind us where he had a new kitchen put in. <div><br /></div><div>When this picture was taken, Olivia (not pictured), just a year older than me, was already secretly meeting Carson in the woods. I remember that on this particular day Jillie was complaining about her boots. She wanted pink slippers. I said, "Just be quiet and smile." <i>Pink slippers!?</i> Mama held her breath and snapped the photo.</div><div><br /></div><div>Taken with Brownie Hawkeye.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-9582126077763039062009-08-16T05:17:00.000-07:002009-08-16T05:19:56.237-07:00Jillie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WMAgOKug6NyT1zVM7pDXQg3E3bLPr2zqExbcebm7HjA-qNFtOS_drsDk2n-EBRWuL9HXpnmmkPEekZ7xwU6eEsn4Xv5XqM0WeosHH2Nmzq3ERpudsDgE67q-SOfEPSct26HlXzBm_Bg/s1600-h/sc0010804f.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3WMAgOKug6NyT1zVM7pDXQg3E3bLPr2zqExbcebm7HjA-qNFtOS_drsDk2n-EBRWuL9HXpnmmkPEekZ7xwU6eEsn4Xv5XqM0WeosHH2Nmzq3ERpudsDgE67q-SOfEPSct26HlXzBm_Bg/s320/sc0010804f.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370534915127173986" /></a>This is a photograph of my sister Jillie. She's the baby of the family, but she's sixteen now. Still, she's the baby to me. I wish that you could see her eyes better. They're mischievous. I love her. She's beautiful.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-49522316318216791712009-08-11T16:07:00.000-07:002009-08-13T18:14:14.177-07:00Father and son<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjj441f99AHDU20dtbx1N3Am34uQuTOwIvTBCMH7lacZWAG2VKzNmh16edvB-f1yRXz5y4Mri2xLOKDyfqmoJzsOI-0zjN-lsqEKQ5He6FtOhM4UqMmznpzurkkeQq95Bzz2C92AXrfI/s1600-h/sc005fa7f1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGjj441f99AHDU20dtbx1N3Am34uQuTOwIvTBCMH7lacZWAG2VKzNmh16edvB-f1yRXz5y4Mri2xLOKDyfqmoJzsOI-0zjN-lsqEKQ5He6FtOhM4UqMmznpzurkkeQq95Bzz2C92AXrfI/s320/sc005fa7f1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369621280636007778" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>I took this picture of a father and son with my Brownie Hawkeye. It was a hazy day. The boy's father, standing in the garden, was handsome.</div>Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8844815105988867354.post-66957313785009014052009-08-10T08:27:00.000-07:002009-08-10T11:48:40.859-07:00The story...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgB3QaL5rLs5yz5ElW8JwZMzPAIbktiUYm4kqNdBGE1PCk6N3vaDZNwjXWsdfDnA3SDuEyaUKH7jqufjszvlw83YWmEfD9Ox1mCZozOtaw4DmH3a-3hMHuPSf7oAcy1OStng8WsyxyzA/s1600-h/DSCN0207.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCgB3QaL5rLs5yz5ElW8JwZMzPAIbktiUYm4kqNdBGE1PCk6N3vaDZNwjXWsdfDnA3SDuEyaUKH7jqufjszvlw83YWmEfD9Ox1mCZozOtaw4DmH3a-3hMHuPSf7oAcy1OStng8WsyxyzA/s320/DSCN0207.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368408743411174466" border="0" /></a>is about friendship, about photographs, about lemon squares.<br /><br />About Gloria Ricci and Isabel Sullivan and her camera, the Brownie Hawkeye. Isabel Sullivan, one of three sisters, was born November 3, 1939 in Batesville, Virginia.<br /><br />Her love of picture taking was one of the many things that set her apart from her sisters, from everyone in fact.Michele Young-Stonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08951960023052093900noreply@blogger.com0