View allAll Photos Tagged easter
These are the mini-mushrooms I've been making for Easter. Each mushroom comes with a 4 inch Easter egg, bunny ears, and bunny pom-pom tail. They are 3.5 inches tall. All of them were made out of Eco-fi felt which is 100% repurposed out of plastic bottles- it's rather amazing feels just like regular wool felt or the other kind.
You can also get them just plain without ears etc if you prefer that :)
Center of an Easter Lily, taken at Krohn Conservatory last weekend. Their lilies are just gorgeous!!
(UNEDITED) Laptop Image
Dedicated to Fricka Morgath because we all miss her so much!
INFORMATION:
Taken at Epic Toy Factory.
Outfit by Elvina Ewing, hair by Nikita Fride, skin by Fricka Morgath.
Raw image, caption added.
Ao and hand animation.
Thank you to Saraid Dalglish and Mayah Parx for their beautiful art.
Completely unedited.(I do not edit images from Second Life)
stained glass window in igreja sao judas tadeu on avenida jabaquara, sao paulo.
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Happy Birthday to Ilse on this very special day. And a very Happy Easter Sunday to all.
Happy Easter everyone.
Last 3 of the Phase 8 outfit from a week or so ago - and a leg show too! Enjoy.
Carolyn will be off line for about 3 weeks, but I'll try and look out some photos from the archives and post them for some fun. XXX
Up on Easter dawn, with a long Sigma telephoto that I just repaired the aperture.
Superstition Mountain range compressed in the background.
So far Easter has been very grey. The sun came out briefly this morning and late this afternoon. I hope tomorrow will be better!
Easter eggs dyed by Kearah. I think she was trying for a large variety of colours, patterns & techniques.
These where all "store bought" eggs as the ones from out bckyard chickens come precoloured a pale brown or blue.
Last year we had so many extra colourful hard boiled eggs that I took them to work as snacks & it took almost a week to through them all.
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Or the chicken that laid the Golden egg??? LOL
Seasonal table decoration.
Some fun for the season.
Smile!
I wish you all a very good day and thanx for all your kind words, time, comments and likes. Very much appreciated.
Magda, (*_*)
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REPOST
Bandit was having nothing to do with wearing these bunny ears this year, so I am reposting his photo from last year. I hope all of my Flickr friends have a glorious Easter Sunday.
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My parlor is all set up for Easter by now, although outside it's still freezing and snowing. I can't wait for Spring to hopefully arrive here next week!
Blogged about here:
carolsgarden.blogspot.de/2013/03/the-bunnies-are-loose-pr...
Shot taken inside the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem this past January. According to traditional Christian belief, this church is built (more or less) on the very place where Jesus was laid to rest on Good Friday, and from where he rose on Easter Day. (The young woman lights candles, while the priest cleans up after the tourists!)
This is one of four pictures on a page labeled "Easter 1952."
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Some of the photos in this album are “originals” from the year that my family spent in Denver in 1952-53 — i.e., the period before Omaha, before Riverside, and before Roswell (which you may have seen already in my Flickr archives). I went back nearly 40 years later, as part of some research that I was doing for a novel called Do-Overs, the beginning of which can be found here on my website
www.yourdon.com/personal/fiction/doovers/index.html
and the relevant chapter (concerning Denver) can be found here:
www.yourdon.com/personal/fiction/doovers/chapters/ch6.html
Before I get into the details, let me make a strong request — if you’re looking at these photos, and if you are getting any enjoyment at all of this brief look at some mundane Americana from 60+ years ago: find a similar episode in your own life, and write it down. Gather the pictures, clean them up, and upload them somewhere on the Internet where they can be found. Trust me: there will come a day when the only person on the planet who actually experienced those events is you. Your own memories may be fuzzy and incomplete; but they will be invaluable to your friends and family members, and to many generations of your descendants.
Actually, I should listen to my own advice: unlike my subsequent visits to Roswell, Riverside, and Omaha I did not take any photos when I tracked down my old homes from the 1952-53 period in Denver. I did locate the second house, and I was stunned to see how it had changed over a period of 40 years: as you’ll see in the photos in this album, it was a new house, under construction, when we moved in. The only “trees” were a few scrawny saplings that my Dad planted in the front and back yard. 40 years later, the trees towered above the house … but the house itself seemed tiny, in comparison to what had seemed like an enormous mansion to an 8 year old boy.
While most of our residential occupancies last just a single year, the period in Denver lasted roughly two years. But it felt almost like two separate cities: first we lived in a rented house in the Denver suburb of Aurora; and then we moved into a new house that my parents purchased somewhere on the south side of Denver. So, as usual, I ended up going to two different schools, and developed a fairly superficial set of friendships with two different groups of kids.
So, what do I remember about the two years that I spent in Denver? Not much at the moment, though I’m sure more details will occur to me in the days to come — and I’ll add them to these notes, along with additional photos that I’m tweaking and editing now.
For now, here is a random list of things I remember:
1. While living in our first home, I finished off my second-grade school year. I did reasonably well in school on most subjects — it was a couple years later, in Roswell, that I announced at breakfast that I had mentally calculated the number of seconds in a century, in the hope that it would help me fall asleep. I rattled off the number, and when my Dad repeated the calculations on his slide rule, he shook his head and told me that I had forgotten to account for leap years. Anyway, in Denver, my 2nd-grade teacher told me I had a much more serious educational problem: my penmanship was atrocious. The school authorities insisted that I spend the summer practicing penmanship, and strongly suggested to my parents that the *real* problem was that I was left-handed. Several attempts were made to make me start writing with my right hand — all of which were dismal failures. I eventually gave up on penmanship, and began printing everything … a habit that continued until I was given a hand-me-down manual typewriter by my parents at the age of 12.
2. The summer of 1951 was hot and humid; and like many other families in the area, my mother took me and the older of my two sisters (the other one was born a year later) to a large public swimming pool (it seemed enormous at the time, but it was probably pretty small). Anyway, it was a great breeding place for germs of all kinds; and sometime in the late summer, everyone but my mother came down with polio. We were all taken off to three different hospitals; and the neighbors were so panicked that my mother might be infectious that they stopped speaking to her altogether. Miraculously, all three of us had gotten the least-virulent form of polio, and we all recovered sufficiently within a week or two that we could come home. I was fairly weak for the next couple of weeks, and had to take a hot bath every day; but aside from that, none of us suffered any no permanent effects.
3. It was late 1951 or early 1952 when we moved into the house that my parents had purchased in another part of town; I remember that my younger sister was born there on St. Patrick’s Day. As usual, I was allowed to wander anywhere I wanted, on foot or on bicycle, as long as I came home on time for dinner. One day I took a long section of rope, climbed way up into a tree a mile or two away from home, and then way out on a long sturdy branch. I tied one end of the rope around the branch, and then wrapped another part of the rope twice around my (left) hand. I swung down from the branch, intending to descend in an orderly fashion, just like I had seen firemen doing it in the movies. Unfortunately, it didn’t work: I slid helter-skelter to the ground, landing in a heap, and the rope around my hand cut through the skin, almost through the tendons, and all the way to the bone. I had to have my hand wrapped in bandages for the first month of my 3rd grade school year; and once again the Authorities tried to use the opportunity to get me to use my right hand for penmanship. Once again, they failed.
4. In the summer of 1952, I was sent off to a sleep-away camp for two weeks, somewhere in the mountains of Colorado. I have no idea why, but it was a lot of fun … until I was thrown off a horse and knocked unconscious. The camp authorities decided there was no reason to inform my parents, though my parents were rather curious when I subsequently refused to climb up on a horse wherever we went. They also noticed that I was limping when I came home from camp, which the camp authorities had apparently not noticed; I had hiked all the way to the top of a mountain with my fellow camp-mates, and I had a rock in one of my boots. It caused a blister, which got infected, and I was probably lucky that they didn’t have to amputate my foot. All in all, the camp experienced was deemed a failure, and I was never sent away again.
5. I got my first slingshot in Denver. It was not a “professional” Wham-O slingshot with natural rubber and ash wood; instead, Dad made one for me from a Y-shaped chunk of plywood, and with strips of rubber from an old automobile inner tube. I thought it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen — and immediately began shooting at every bird I could see on a telephone wire or branch of a tree. I never did hit a single one of the. (By the way, Wham-O eventually went on to achieve even more fame with its hula hoop, frisbee, and hack sack. You can read all about them here on the Internet: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wham-O )
6. The next best thing, besides a slingshot, was the top of a coffee can. They tended to have fairly sharp edges, but if you held it carefully and threw it just right, it would sail for miles and miles … at least it seemed that way. It wouldn’t return to you, a la boomerangs (which every kid had heard about, but none had ever actually seen) — but it was just like throwing a flying saucer. Unfortunately, coffee-can-tops were not readily found, especially since we kids never drank any coffee. We had to wait patiently for our parents to finish off an entire can of coffee, and then scoop it out of the garbage can when it was thrown out.
Came upon this heartbreaking tableau in a nearby cemetery the other day. I'd headed out on a cold and rainy morning. Imperfect weather ignites a strange creative bent for me. And coming into a burial ground in these conditions usually ensures that my visit is solitary. Something about that desolation fuels the intensity of the experience. For me it's all about focus, oneness. Upon arrival in a place like this, I'm unerringly pulled this way or that until I find the reason(s) I was brought here. And so I stumbled upon this forlorn Easter basket left on the grave of a child. I was first attracted by the brilliant color, completely out of context with the bleached landscape and leaden sky. Then the bunny caught my eye. From a distance it appeared real. Up close it looked more like a bristle brush, but for that one moment it seemed to be a living being, quivering, frail and vulnerable. I had an irrational vision of the bristle bunny leaping from the basket and hopping off in fear of my approach. It's all very conflicting seeing things like this, totally out of context from the joy that were intended to bring. I thought back to the Easter baskets of my own childhood. Brought out on Easter morning in the comfort of home and family, siblings and parents. So much happiness associated with that, but as with many childhood memories, the details are compressed into very small flashbacks. The explore like tiny bombs every time I step on some unseen tripwire. Most of the intricate detail has now been smoothed over by time. Yet vivid splinters remain. Just enough to tell the story. I recall my Easter basket, and burrowing through the fake green grass for hidden chocolate eggs. We would get dressed up, and head to our grandparents for dinner and an egg hunt. The eggs were mostly filled with candy and small change. One egg contained a dollar bill. Man that was the coveted egg back then. A whole freaking dollar! The flashback ended just like that, distant recollections swirled away like water disappearing down a drain. My wonderful childhood Easter basket dissolved into this rain soaked one, standing lonely vigil over the cold gravesite of some poor kid I don't even know. I thought about how differently our life paths ended. I was saddened, but I still took the photo. This story still needed telling despite the sadness. I walked off, not looking back for fear that bristle bunny was following me home. I guess in a way it did.