The Academy at Metropolitan School of the Arts honored its fourth graduating class in a celebration Friday at Old Town Hall in Fairfax. The event marked the end of the Academy's sixth year and featured performances by the graduates and students who attend the school.
Congratulations to Emma Feddo, Brian Selcik, Sylvia Taylor, Elpida Voryas, and Mariah White. Thank you to the speakers — Susan Shields and David Cherington — as well as to the staff and parents who did so much to make this a special event for this year’s class.
Students from Metropolitan School of the Arts’ homeschool program performed in a showcase Tuesday for parents and families. Performing two shows, broken down into three groups, the students showed what they have learned over several months through a series of skits, songs, and dance combinations.
So... You might have noticed that I've chosen not to post political/social stuff on here in recent months. I could make a few statements about the state of the state/nation, but I won't, even though I reserve the right to resume a rant at any time. (It is likely my mom — and sister — will feel a slight sense of relief at that last statement.)
Anyone who knows me knows how I feel about the person I shall not name (in large part because his ego feeds off people making references to him, good and bad). Instead, I'll limit this forum to posts about family and friends.
After all, why shouldn't I bury my head in the sand and try to avoid someone challenging my beliefs/value system? That's what others have chosen to do on some of the most difficult issues our country has grappled with in the last 45 years. (If you're wondering what took place 45-46 years ago, look it up.)
So here is to happy places and unicorns. I have a lot of positives to post about my wife and my four kids, and look forward to sharing those things with you. If you'd like to have a discussion/debate on things that go beyond that, feel free to do so.
Thanks... And here's to the unicorns among us!
Going through files recently, I saw the photo on the right from a 2017 family reunion in Boone. That in turn prompted me to look for the photo on the left, which was taken 10 years earlier in Wintergreen, Va. Emma would not be happy that the pyramid is not the same, but otherwise everything else seems to fit...
Last week, I traveled to Maryland, New York and Pennsylvania in a winding run that included shooting a two-day corporate retreat, a luncheon and performance for 120 donors, and collateral that will be used in the marketing of a chain of independent schools.
At some point each day, I was asked what I enjoy photographing the most. My answer is almost always the same: “I like to shoot what I see.” That’s not meant to be flip. To me, the type of shoot doesn’t matter because I learn something new every time I pick up a camera. As long as I can capture images that are interesting, engaging, and tell a story, that’s a bonus.
Here are some “bonus” images that I’ve captured over the past 10 days. Most aren’t directly related to the business shoots, but things I saw during those in between moments you get while traveling. Hope you enjoy them.
This stunning song is perfect for Memorial Day. The entire album, “Revival,” by Radney Foster is one of my favorites.
And while we’re on the subject of memorials, this month has not been kind to entertainment and sports icons from my childhood. In the past two weeks, we’ve lost:
• Tim Conway: Oh, how you made us all laugh. Especially Harvey.
• Doris Day: Que sera sera. The TV shows. The movies with Cagney, Hitchcock and especially Rock Hudson. And that day in 1985 when a terribly ill Hudson appeared on your show, finally bringing a national spotlight to the AIDS crisis.
• Bart Starr: A class act on and off the field.
• Bill Buckner: 22 years, 2,715 hits, and a botched groundball that lives in infamy.
Today’s lesson: If you make silly faces for a photographer at a movie premiere, you might end up on the website for People Magazine.
The Academy at Metropolitan School of the Arts began its annual end-of-year showcase with two performances for parents and the public on Saturday at the MSA black box theater. A luncheon and showcase for donors, industry professionals and representatives from area colleges was held Monday.
To see more photos from the showcase, go to my Facebook album here. Below are photos I took at the luncheon.
While editing files from the Metropolitan School of the Arts' Academy showcase this weekend, I realized I had not posted photos from the Company Project, a revue performed by MSA's pre-professional dance companies on the last day of March.
"Unplugged," under the artistic direction of Sara Hart and Charles Renato, featured innovative choreography by faculty, students, alumnus, and guest artists. The iMpulse and MYTE companies, along with special guest performers, performed selections that urged the audience to remember a life before we were "plugged in" all the time.
The 1-hour and 40-minute show, performed at the Ernst Cultural Arts Center on the Northern Virginia Community College campus, was a treat to watch. Congratulations to everyone for their hard work.
To see more photos from the event, go to my Facebook album here.
That Einstein was a pretty insightful guy. Must have lived in the D.C. area at some point.
Sixty-five years ago today, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that public schools were “inherently unequal” in its treatment of African-American youth. According to researcher and scholar Richard Rothstein, the May 17, 1954 ruling in Brown v. Board of Education served as a spark plug for the “freedom rides, sit-ins, voter registration efforts and other actions leading ultimately to civil rights legislation in the late 1950s and 1960s.”
But did it help undo public school segregation? Rothstein and others argue that it didn’t.
For an example of this, look no further than “Segregation’s Legacy,” a story I wrote earlier this year on Summerton, S.C., the small town where the first of five lawsuits that led to Brown was filed. I first went to Summerton in 2003 to look at the town and its schools as the 50th anniversary of Brown approached, then returned in January for another visit to see what — if anything — had changed.
What I found and what I saw was published in the April edition of American School Board Journal, the magazine of the National School Boards Association. In a first for me, the story blends first-person narrative with updated reporting as well as photographs I took.
Sadly, Summerton’s story seems to prove Rothstein’s point. Fifteen years later, another generation of students has been deprived of an opportunity to be part of well-funded, integrated schools where the focus is on learning for the future, not trying to hold on to the past.
I hope you’ll take a few minutes to read “Segregation’s Legacy.” The link to the article is http://bit.ly/ASBJ-Summerton2019. You also can download a copy of my 2004 article at http://bit.ly/ASBJ-Footnote2004.
OK, folks, you've got just under a month's notice, so I hope you'll join us at the Birchmere to see Carole Montgomery and other comediennes perform standup in "Funny Women of a Certain Age" on June 9. If you have Showtime on demand, you should be able to catch the recent special they aired.
Carole is one of the best and funniest humans I know, and you'll have a great time. I can't afford to give money back guarantees but you trust me on this one. It'll be worth the price of admission.
(And yes, I realize it's a Sunday, but the show starts at 7:30 for those of you who are of a certain age or have to get up early the next day.)
Thirty years ago, I was working to finish my journalism degree during the day while working nights as the city editor of the Texas City Sun. At the time, I’d been working in newspapers since high school, but knew I had to get my bachelor’s degree to have a shot at advancement (and a salary that paid a living wage).
The schedule was onerous: Classes from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. and then work (if I was lucky) from 4 p.m. to midnight at a newspaper 40 miles from campus. It was 18 months of hell, and I looked for any shortcuts I could find.
Segue to my first (and only) photography class. The professor was an adjunct at University of Houston, a photographer who worked for the Houston Chronicle and picked up coursework for extra money. He surveyed the class and told us all that we had two assignments to get an “A.” The first was to get a single photograph published in a newspaper or magazine. The second was to develop a package of photos with a narrative and make it available to one of the local papers in the area.
Realizing I could finish the 18-week course in only a few days, I was quick to turn in a photo I had taken for a feature story. But the photo package with narrative presented a small, though not unsurmountable problem.
At the time, I was working on a series of stories about struggling downtown Texas City, which was fading into oblivion as development moved toward Interstate 45. The Sixth Street economy first was hit during the Arab oil embargo in the late 1970s and the opening of Mall of the Mainland that year did the downtown businesses no favors.
We had a staff photographer working on the Sixth Street package, so I wasn’t able to piggyback off that. But I did focus on one piece of the downtown downturn — the closed and decaying Showboat Theater — and combined it with a separate project: La Marque’s Bayou Drive-In that had been destroyed by Hurricane Alicia some seven years before.
I’ve always been fascinated by movies and the theaters that show them. The love of film comes from my dad’s side of the family. My interest in the architecture of movie houses and the different pieces of how the film business works was a natural outgrowth of that love.
As a child, I’d only seen a couple of movies at the Showboat, which closed at some point in the mid 1970s and tried to briefly — and unsuccessfully — open as an adult film house. As a teen, I spent most of my available nights at the Tradewinds Theatre, a two-screen “modern” building on 21st Street near the high school. I never worked there; instead, I watched movies constantly and begged for used posters from the theater’s manager.
I remember going to a couple of movies at the three-screen Bayou Drive-In, which at its height in the early 1970s could hold 1,500 cars on a huge plot of land off Interstate 45. Drive-ins started falling out of favor with the arrival of home video in the late 1970s and early 80s, so it made sense when the owners did not rebuild after the 1983 hurricane.
The Showboat was just around the corner from the Sun’s offices on 4th Avenue. At its peak, it was surrounded by local shops and department stores such as JC Penney, which for a long time had the only escalator in town. By the late 1980s, Penney’s had closed and moved out to the mall, and plans were underway to move the Sun’s offices out toward I-45 as well.
In many ways, The Showboat’s fate mirrors that of many single-screen theaters in towns across the U.S. Closed for more than two decades, the building was demolished in 2000.
Unlike many towns, however, the theater’s identity is still present. As part of a rejuvenation project for Sixth Street, it was replaced with a smaller replica of the original theater. The Showboat Pavilion, as it is known, hosts indoor and outdoor events.
When I went to visit my hometown briefly last fall, I took a couple of photos of the pavilion before leaving. That's the only color picture you’ll see here. Thirty years ago, we were just starting to experiment with color photos in newspapers; today it’s commonplace. What’s not common is for people to read on newsprint anymore.
I remember vividly trying to get permission to take photos inside The Showboat in 1989. A representative for the owners said I could go no further than the lobby due to liability concerns. Two doors had no glass and the lobby was trashed. A half torn poster of “Chinatown” from 15 years earlier was seen with film reels and discarded press kits on the tile floor.
Walking around the drive-in property was easier, but none of the screens remained and the main concession area had been gutted. The photos you see here — for larger versions, go to my Facebook page — are the best of what I got.
I wish I could tell you the obstacles from the owners prevented the photos from being better, but that would be an excuse I also thought about noting how I had one camera with one lens and one day to shoot, hoping against hope that I could convince my bosses to let me put the photos on the Lifestyle page.
They did, and I was able to leave the class soon after with my A. While that was a relief, in terms of my health/quality of life/miserably needy GPA, I left knowing I had given the class the short shrift. I rationalized that photography was not for me, given my lacking skills and general distaste for working with film in a darkroom.
But as anyone who reads this knows, photography has become my favorite creative outlet thanks to digital, even if my skills sometimes seem rudimentary.
So, skipping forward too many years and chapters, here we are, looking at negatives that were scanned that provide us with a glimpse of hometown history and a mea culpa from a one-time student who didn’t try hard enough.
A or no A, I wish I could get a do over so I could do this project justice. But that’s impossible, so I guess I’ll never know.
Three belated stories from Mother’s Day:
My mom’s mom died a week after her daughter was born prematurely some 77 years ago. Soon after, my grandfather joined the Navy and sent my mother to live with her grandparents in West Texas. While he was in the Pacific, both of mom’s grandparents passed away within a week of each other; she only saw her father a handful of times in the first five years of her life. And when he returned, it was with a new wife — a person devoid of almost all maternal instinct — in tow.
Tragedy and loss are things my mom knew intimately before she could recall all the details, although her memory always has been sharp and specific, as has her tongue at times. My parents had a great love story that was not hindered or halted by my dad’s illness that consumed much of the last 34 years of their 43-year marriage.
More than anything, my mom is a survivor who somehow has maintained her generosity of spirit. She gives a lot and asks for little in return. We agree to disagree on a lot, especially today’s politics, but what I admire most about both of my parents is they never told me what or how to think. They let me figure it out on my own.
This past weekend, my mom was honored for her 50 years of membership in Alpha Delta Kappa, an international honorary organization for women educators that promotes excellence in the profession while embarking on a host of community-based altruistic projects. Because of graduation-related events here, I could not attend the surprise party on Saturday that drew teachers and retirees from all over the state of Texas.
I called mom Sunday to wish her “Happy Mother’s Day” and to see how the ADK event went. She was getting ready — or fixin’, as she says — to go to a birthday party for her 4-year-old great grandson. She was genuinely surprised (hard to do with her) and touched by the outpouring she had received.
No one I know is more deserving of such an honor. ADK has been part of her life for all but four years of my life, and I know how much it has meant to my mom. I hope she knows how much she means to all of us.
Two weeks ago, our daughter Emma graduated from college. On Saturday, our niece Margaret graduated from American University.
On Mother's Day, Jill and Margaret's mom Jennifer threw a graduation party for the two on a rainy afternoon in D.C. All of the family, plus significant others, a couple of the extendeds and a number of friends, joined in the celebration.
As moms are wont to do, Jennifer and Jill went above and beyond for the event. The party was a huge success and a great way to congratulate both girls, the last of the six first cousins to cross the threshold into adulthood.
Congratulations again to Margaret and Emma, and here's a shout out to the women who raised them (and the others as well).
On Sunday morning, I went to get Jill coffee and breakfast as a small Mother's Day token. Because the D.C. weather has decided to take on Seattle/London characteristics — we beat a record for the most rain over a 365-day period this past week — the four-block walk required a raincoat and a quicker than usual pace.
En route, I saw a homeless woman sitting in one of the narrow gaps between the buildings on King Street. She's a familiar face around here; you can often see her sitting on one of the benches, talking to people we think of as imagined but who seem real to her in that moment.
Standing in the Starbucks line, I thought of my mom's altruistic work with ADK and Emma's insistence on giving her hard-earned money to those who are homeless or less fortunate. So I bought an extra coffee and croissant and gave it to the homeless woman as she sat in the rain.
"Happy Mother's Day," I said.
"Same to you," she replied. "God bless you."
I have no idea whether she is or was a mom to someone. All I know is that she is someone's child. And none of God's children should ever go hungry, especially if they are looking for a dry place to sit on Mother's Day.
On Saturday, Jill and Kate attended our niece Margaret’s graduation from American University. Due to ticket restrictions, the rest of us — Ben, Emma, Nick, Conner, and Ashley — could not go to the event. So we went to see Ben Platt, the Tony Award-winning star of “Dear Evan Hansen,” perform live at The Anthem. For once, I didn’t shoot the concert, but I did get these pics backstage.
Son Volt played a career spanning set Sunday at Washington, D.C.’s 9:30 Club, with songs from their 1995 debut “Trace” all the way to the current “Union,” which came out earlier this year. Singer-songwriter Ian Noe was the opener. Moe’s debut album, “Between the Country,” will be released at the end of the month.
#sonvolt #iannoemusic #americanahighways #930Club
Mental Illness: That “thing” that no one sees.
Mental Illness: That “thing” that no one sees … until it manifests itself because you choose not to understand or truly deal with what it is.
Mental Illness: That “thing” that people think is “difficult” or “a choice” to act in a certain way, when in reality it’s the polar opposite.
Mental Illness: That “thing” that prevents you at times from responding as you “should” (i.e. with kindness and tolerance.)
Mental Illness: That “thing” that no one understands.
Mental Illness: That “thing.”
STOP calling mental illness “that thing.”
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. We have to speak up and educate others about #mentalillness #nostigma
Richard J. Hinds, associate choreographer of “Come from Away” and associate director of “Newsies,” worked with students this week at Metropolitan School of the Arts.
Hinds spoke to students in the Academy’s musical theatre class and taught classes in tap and jazz. Like other professionals who have spoken to the academy students, Hinds listened to the kids perform, gave audition advice, and answered a variety of questions. He also taught the advance tap and jazz students various combinations from shows he has worked on.
I wrote this short story several years ago. It came from watching and observing different people on a commuter train and fictionalizing their lives. A friend’s post on Facebook inspired me to dig it up and post it here. Interested to hear what you think.
His loafers rubbed at the already thin socks on his feet, adding to the calluses on his little toes and pushing on his heels. His suit jacket flapped out, pants drooping under his belly a little more.
Thirty feet to go, then the 22 stairs. The whistle blew. He had to make it or sit and wait for another hour.
Tie slung over his shoulder, he turned the corner and took the stairs two at a time — 2, 4, 6, 8 … 18, 20, 22. He waved to the man in the funny little hat and shouted for him to hold the train. The conductor nodded, silently telling him to hurry.
He started testing time a few months ago, more than anything to add some excitement back into his life. The commute to and from his office held little to no mystery, so he pushed back when he left his house or office for the train station.
He regretted that now.
He punched his ticket, took the steps up to the car marked “Coach Class,” noticed the other man’s funny little tie clip on the third button of his shirt, and started looking for a seat.
His feet throbbed. He couldn’t stand the whole way. “Please let there be a seat,” he thought, almost aloud.
A ball of sweat rolled down his nose, even though it was just January. His skin turned splotchy red from the desperate run.
There was a place six rows up. And remarkably, someone wasn’t slouching in it, snoring away. He had the entire row of two all to himself. He sat, pulling up his pants as the train pulled away. He was exhausted.
But he couldn’t sleep. That often happened on days like this. Mornings that started way too early and ran deep into the evening. He was lucky, and he knew it, because the man with the funny little hat and tie clip had recognized him and held things up. He wondered how, in the sea of faceless people, the man had remembered.
The train jerked slightly to the right, then straightened. It did this every time it pulled away from the station, allowing him to tell the veterans from the rookie riders. The regulars rarely noticed; newbies cocked a half smile and made an offhand comment to the person sitting next to them.
At least the newbies spoke. They and a couple of veteran riders who were trying to convert you in some way. Commuter converters, he called them. They made nice for the first couple of minutes, checking out your political leanings, whether you had a family, what your job was, asking if you had a church, and then they started on their agenda. The sound and the fury varied, as did the subject matter, but the dulling effect on his senses felt the same.
The morning talkers were the worst. The previous week he had gotten stuck next to a newbie wearing too much perfume. She was heading to a job interview for a position she would never get because of her smell. It was worse than the strongest, fuzziest cup of coffee he had ever consumed, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything. By the time the train stopped at his station, he was too tired and woozy to work.
That wouldn’t happen today. He was on his way home, for one, and no one dared to sit next to him. He looked down at his belly and thought to himself, “Who would want to?”
He’d been on this train for 21 years, traveling up and down an hour each way into the city. His wife had wanted to live farther out, so they found a house that looked like every fourth house in their neighborhood and moved in. The kids — a daughter now in college and a son, now in high school — were bored suburbanites consumed by shopping and social media. His wife, the administrative assistant to the county judge, was looking at retirement soon.
Travel to the first stop took eight minutes, four seconds. By this time, he had settled into his comfortable routine. Take out the laptop, open the reports and start to shuffle papers. By the third stop — 22 minutes and 19 seconds out, give or take — he had finished his task and started looking around. It was better than laptop Solitaire.
Twenty-one years on this train, he thought, and what to show for it? No major injuries. No wrecks or derailments. No robberies. He had not been conned or converted. He had seen towns grow and decay at each stop, wondering what was happening in the lives of those around him.
One morning, on the Amtrak, he met a woman with a scarf wrapped around her head and headphones poking out of her ears. Occasionally she shifted in her seat but remained still for most of the trip. He wondered where she was going and decided to ask. It wasn’t like him, but he couldn’t resist.
“I’m going home,” she said.
“Me, too. Where’re you headed?”
She told him of the town up north. She had been home to bury her mother, leaving her husband and seven children behind. Her husband was self-employed and they couldn’t afford for everyone to go.
“They didn’t like her much anyway,” she said by way of explanation.
Usually, he didn’t talk, even though he wanted to on some days. In high school and college, he had acquaintances who seemed to appreciate his wit and playful nature. That’s one reason his wife was attracted to him. Or at least had been.
He worked for a government agency, like most everyone on the train, sitting inside a cubicle with his family’s pictures on the desk. Mostly, he pushed paper from one stack to the next, then into the outbox. Some mornings he daydreamed, with thoughts of playing hooky and touring the museums.
It wasn’t a bad life. Just dull, he thought, as he saw the next group get ready to disembark. It was the fourth stop, 31 minutes and 40 seconds out. The person opposite his seat had gotten off one stop before. A woman and her child walked down the row, holding hands, and sat next to him, their seat still warm.
The child, who appeared to be 2 or 3, looked nervous. She was the newest newbie he had seen in a while. Occasionally a group of school children went into the city on a field trip, pissing off the commuter converters who didn’t like to be squeezed in on “their” train. A little man who rode the same route always asked the tie clip attendant, “What the hell is this?” as the school kids got on, followed by, “I hope you’ll make sure they stay in their car.” It was the only time the little man, as he had been dubbed, ever spoke.
But this child seemed different. She was younger than the school kids, for one, and he saw something in her eyes.
“Hi,” he said to the little girl, who buried her head in the woman’s chest. “It’ll be OK.”
The woman looked down at her child and kissed her on top of the head. The little girl peered at him, a thousand questions hovering behind those big, innocent eyes.
“Is this your first time on the train?” he asked.
“You’ll like it. Look out the window,” he said, pointing.
She lifted her head and saw the river, then said something unintelligible to her mother.
“Lift up your feet,” she said then, a little louder.
Her mom pulled up her knees. The little girl motioned to him and said in a loud whisper, “Lift up your feet, or your toes will turn green.”
He did as he was told. The little girl’s mother looked at him and said, “It’s a little game we play; it keeps her occupied when we are in the car.”
He smiled and asked the woman where they were going. One stop beyond his, she replied. They would be on the train together for the rest of the route.
The little girl looked out the window at the trees. “What’s that?” she asked repeatedly.
Her mother patiently gave an answer every time she asked, occasionally looking over at him and rolling her eyes slightly. He was intrigued.
After the sixth stop, 44 minutes and 31 seconds out, the little girl started to squirm. They had been forced to wait much longer than usual, because an elderly gentleman had trouble getting down the stairs. He noticed the train attendant with the tie clip patiently helping the elderly gentleman down.
He thought of the two extremes, the little girl and the old man, that were on his train. And that’s the way he looked at it; after 21 years, it sort of was “his train.” If he had been the manager, he would have given the attendant high marks for his kindness. He would not permit perfume. He would add a beverage area, but with no alcohol. He would force people to speak to each other.
A northbound train zoomed past on the other track, scaring the little girl. She buried her face in her mother’s chest again and started to whimper softly. At least she didn’t scream.
“Would you like to sit over here?” he asked in a kind voice, motioning to the two-thirds of a seat he had remaining.
The little girl looked at him with the big eyes. She looked up at her mother, speaking to her silently, and her mother nodded her approval. As the train left the station, she squeezed in next to him, her legs just extending past the seat’s edge.
They rode together for two more stops. She moved onto his knee, again with her mother’s silent approval. She asked about the trees, the silver door with the big red lettering that opened and shut. She pointed at a woman two rows up and asked if she was his mother. That made him laugh. She noticed the ripples in the second river they crossed together and made him lift up his feet again.
His stop, 61 minutes and 34 seconds out because of the earlier delay, came quickly, and he didn’t want to leave. But he motioned to the girl’s mother that he had to stand up, that this was his stop, and she told her daughter to move away.
The little girl complied, then turned and hugged him around the leg as he stood.
“Thank you,” she said in a sweet little voice, pronouncing “Thank” as “Tank.”
“No, thank you,” he said, smiling. “I hope to see you again.”
She smiled back, an innocent.
It had not been a bad ride after all.
Highlights from Emma's graduation weekend at Point Park in Pittsburgh. We can’t wait to see what she does next!
We were blessed to have the entire familly there. My mom came from Texas, Nick and Conner and Michael and Jennifer drove up from North Carolina. Jill's cousin James drove in from Fredericksburg. And Ben, after his flight was cancelled, rode on a bus all night to mark the occasion.
Our beautiful baby girl graduated from college today, finishing Summa Cum Laude after three years at Point Park University, where she double majored in dance and sports, arts and entertainment management.
Ben, Kate (with boyfriend Matthew), Nick and Conner, my mom, Jennifer and Michael, and Jill's cousin James were on hand with us in Pittsburgh to mark Emma's achievement.
Ben took the photo of Emma, while I took this shot of the hat she decorated for commencement. I love her message on it: Life opens at the close.
Politics aside, Washington, D.C., was literally built on a swamp. And rising up from the swamp, in the middle of the Potomac River, is an island memorial named for the 26th president of the United States.
Theodore Roosevelt Island is an 88.5-acre island that is part of our nation’s capital, even though it is only accessible by a footbridge from Virginia.
Known by various names prior to being dedicated to Roosevelt, the island was acquired by George Mason III in 1724 and owned by the family for more than 100 years. In 1831, the Masons left the island when a causeway stagnated the water. It was owned by two other families and then Washington Gas Light Company before it was purchased by the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Association in 1931.
Today, the island is maintained as a natural park, with a variety of trails and a plaza dedicated to Roosevelt. Architects designed a “real forest” to mimic what once covered the island in honor of a president known as a great outdoorsman and conservationist.
On Easter Sunday, a perfect spring day, my wife and I took the family dog on a walk around the island and I snapped a few photos. Enjoy.
You can see more photos in my Facebook album here.
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