Sophie’s first Pork Festival doesn’t seem like that long ago. I was about to write about this being the boys’ first Pork Festival when I realized it wasn’t—it was their second. It was Colleen’s first. Time. I know it’s cliché, but it really does fly.
I write about the Pork Festival every year. It’s a part of me, a part of my family, it’s simply what we do—so imbedded that Katy, Tom and Colleen came just for the weekend for it (and we were all so happy they did).
I like, in life, having things I do outside of holidays that I do every single year. There’s reassurance in that. Expectedness. Another symbol of another year gone by. Memories. Tradition.
Colleen was so stylish, in her dark blue jeans, white onesie and knitted pink hat.
I miss her. So much.
Aunt Ellen with my dad
Uncle Mark playing cars with Owen and James. Four children grew up in this farmhouse, the house where my grandma still lives. I’m sure there have been many toy cars pushed along these hardwood floors.
Andy and Sophie playing hide-and-go-seek in Grandma’s living room.
play time with Grandpa
Grandma, Aunt Ellen, Uncle Mark, Uncle Roger, Dad
“Tradition is the illusion of permanence.” —Woody Allen